THE 
HARBOR 


ERNEST 
POOL 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE   HARBOR 


THE 
HARBOR 


BY 


ERNEST  POOLE 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Published   by   Arrangement   with   The    Macmillan    Company. 


COPTBIGHT,  1915, 

Br  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  February,  1915 
Reprinted  February,  1»15  Twice.    March. 
1915  Tkre<3  Times.     April.  1916  Twice  May,  191$. 
twloe    June,  1915.  Twlca  July,  1915.  August,   1915. 
September,  October,    November,  December,    1915. 
January,  191*.   March.  1913 


PS 


ou 


V 

TO  M.  A. 


2041584 


BOOK  I 


THE   HARBOR 


BOOK  I 


CHAPTEK   I 

"You  chump,"  I  thought  contemptuously.  I  was  seven 
years  old  at  the  time,  and  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  re 
ferred  was  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  What  it  was  that 
aroused  my  contempt  for  the  man  will  be  more  fully  un 
derstood  if  I  tell  first  of  the  grudge  that  I  bore  him. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  mother's  pew  in  the  old  church  in 
Brooklyn.  I  was  altogether  too  small  for  the  pew,  it  was 
much  too  wide  for  the  bend  at  my  knees;  and  my  legs, 
which  were  very  short  and  fat,  stuck  straight  out  before 
me.  I  was  not  allowed  to  move,  I  was  most  uncomforta 
ble,  and  for  this  Sabbath  torture  I  laid  all  the  blame  on 
the  preacher.  For  my  mother  had  once  told  me  that  I 
was  brought  to  church  so  small  in  order  that  when  I  grew 
up  I  could  say  I  had  heard  the  great  man  preach  before 
he  died.  Hence  the  deep  grudge  that  I  bore  him.  Sitting 
here  this  morning,  it  seemed  to  me  for  hours  and  hours,  I 
had  been  meditating  upon  my  hard  lot.  From  time  to 
time,  as  was  my  habit  when  thinking  or  feeling  deeply,  one 
hand  would  unconsciously  go  to  my  head  and  slowly  stroke 
my  bang.  My  hair  was  short  and  had  no  curls,  its  only 
glory  was  this  bang,  which  was  deliciously  soft  to  my  hand 
and  shone  like  a  mirror  from  much  reflective  stroking. 
Presently  my  mother  would  notice  and  with  a  smile  she 
would  put  down  my  hand,  but  a  few  moments  later  up  it 

3 


4  THE    HARBOR 

would  come  and  would  continue  its  stroking.  For  I  felt 
both  abused  and  puzzled.  What  was  there  in  the  talk  of 
the  large  white-haired  old  man  in  the  pulpit  to  make  my 
mother's  eyes  so  queer,  to  make  her  sit  so  stiff  and  still  ? 
What  good  would  it  do  me  when  I  grew  up  to  say  that  I 
had  heard  him  ? 

"I  don't  believe  I  will  ever  say  it,"  I  reasoned  doggedly 
to  myself.  "And  even  if  I  do,  I  don't  believe  any  other 
man  will  care  whether  I  say  it  to  him  or  not."  I  felt  sure 
my  father  wouldn't.  He  never  even  came  to  church. 

At  the  thought  of  my  strange  silent  father,  my  mind 
leaped  to  his  warehouse,  his  dock,  the  ships  and  the  har 
bor.  Like  him,  they  were  all  so  strange.  And  my  hands 
grew  a  little  cold  and  moist  as  I  thought  of  the  terribly 
risky  thing  I  had  planned  to  do  all  by  myself  that  very 
afternoon.  I  thought  about  it  for  a  long  time  with  my 
eyes  tight  shut.  Then  the  voice  of  the  minister  brought  me 
back,  I  found  myself  sitting  here  in  church  and  went  on 
with  this  less  shivery  thinking. 

"I  wouldn't  care  myself,"  I  decided.  "If  I  were  a  man 
and  another  man  met  me  on  the  street  and  said,  'Look 
here.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  heard  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
before  he  died/  I  guess  I  would  just  say  to  him,  'You 
mind  your  business  and  I'll  mind  mine.' '  This  phrase 
I  had  heard  from  the  corner  grocer,  and  I  liked  the  sound 
of  it.  I  repeated  it  now  with  an  added  zest. 

Again  I  opened  my  eyes  and  again  I  found  myself  here 
in  church.  Still  here.  I  heaved  a  weary  sigh. 

"If  you  were  dead  already,"  I  thought  as  I  looked  up 
at  the  preacher,  "my  mother  wouldn't  bring  me  here."  I 
found  this  an  exceedingly  cheering  thought.  I  had  once 
overheard  our  cook  Anny  describe  how  her  old  father  had 
dropped  dead.  I  eyed  the  old  minister  hopefully. 

But  what  was  this  he  was  saying?  Something  about 
"the  harbor  of  life."  The  harbor!  In  an  instant  I  was 
listening  hard,  for  this  was  something  I  knew  about. 

"Safe  into  the  harbor,"  I  heard  him  say.     "Home  to 


THE   HARBOR  5 

the  harbor  at  last  to  rest."  And  then,  while  he  passed  on 
to  something  else,  something  I  didn't  know  about,  I  set 
tled  disgustedly  back  in  the  pew. 

"You  chump,"  I  thought  contemptuously.  To  hear 
him  talk  you  would  have  thought  the  harbor  was  a  place 
to  feel  quite  safe  in,  a  place  to  snuggle  down  in,  a  nice 
little  place  to  come  home  to  at  night.  "I  guess  he  has 
never  seen  it  much,"  I  snorted. 

For  I  had.  From  our  narrow  brownstone  house  on  the 
Heights,  ever  since  I  could  remember  (and  let  me  tell 
you  that  seems  a  long  time  when  you  are  seven  years  old), 
I  had  looked  down  from  our  back  windows  upon  a  harbor 
that  to  me  was  strange  and  terrible. 

I  was  glad  that  our  house  was  up  so  high.  Its  front 
was  on  a  sedate  old  street,  and  within  it  everything  felt 
safe.  My  mother  was  here,  and  Sue,  my  little  sister, 
and  old  Belle,  our  nurse,  our  nursery,  my  games,  my  ani 
mals,  my  fairy  books,  the  small  red  table  where  I  ate  my 
supper,  and  the  warm  fur  rug  by  my  bed,  where  I  knelt 
for  "Now  I  lay  me." 

But  from  the  porch  at  the  back  of  our  house  you  went 
three  steps  down  to  a  long  narrow  garden — at  least  the 
garden  seemed  long  to  me — and  if  you  walked  to  the  end 
of  the  garden  and  peered  through  the  ivy-covered  bars  of 
the  fence,  as  I  had  done  when  I  was  so  little  that  I  could 
barely  walk  alone,  you  had  the  first  mighty  thrill  of 
your  life.  For  you  found  that  through  a  hole  in  the  ivy 
you  could  see  a  shivery  distance  straight  down  through  the 
air  to  a  street  below.  You  found  that  the  two  iron  posts, 
one  at  either  end  of  the  fence,  were  warm  when  you 
touched  them,  had  holes  in  the  top,  had  smoke  coming 
out — were  chimneys!  And  slowly  it  dawned  upon  your 
mind  that  this  garden  of  yours  was  nothing  at  all  but  the 
roof  of  a  gray  old  building — which  your  nurse  told  you 
vaguely  had  been  a  "warehouse"  long  ago  when  the  waters 
of  the  harbor  had  come  'way  in  to  the  street  below.  The 
old  "wharves"  had  been  down  there,  she  said.  What  was 


6  THE    HARBOR 

a  "wharf"  ?  It  was  a  "dock,"  she  told  me.  And  she  said 
that  a  family  of  "dockers"  lived  in  the  building  under  our 
garden.  They  were  all  that  was  left  in  it  now  but  "old 
junk."  Who  was  Old  Junk,  a  man  or  a  woman?  And 
what  in  the  world  were  Dockers? 

Pursuing  my  adventurous  ways,  I  found  at  one  place 
in  the  garden,  hidden  by  flowers  near  a  side  wall,  a  large 
heavy  lid  which  was  painted  brown  and  felt  like  tin.  But 
how  much  heavier  than  tin.  Tug  as  I  might,  I  could  not 
budge  it.  Then  I  found  it  had  an  iron  hook  and  was 
hooked  down  tight  to  the  garden.  Yes,  it  was  true,  our 
whole  garden  was  a  roof!  I  put  my  ear  down  to  the  lid 
and  listened  scowling,  both  eyes  shut.  I  heard  nothing 
then,  but  I  came  back  and  tried  it  many  times,  until  once 
I  jumped  up  and  ran  like  mad.  For  faintly  from  some 
where  deep  down  under  the  flower  beds  I  had  heard  a 
baby  crying !  What  was  this  baby,  a  Junk  or  a  Docker  ? 
And  who  were  these  people  who  lived  under  flowers  ?  To 
me  they  sounded  suspiciously  like  the  goblins  in  my  goblin 
book.  Once  when  I  was  sick  in  bed,  Sue  came  shrieking 
into  the  house  and  said  that  a  giant  had  heaved  up  that 
great  lid  from  below.  Up  had  come  his  shaggy  head,  his 
dirty  face,  his  rolling  eyes,  and  he  had  laughed  and 
laughed  at  the  flowers.  He  was  a  drunken  man,  our  old 
nurse  Belle  had  told  her,  but  Sue  was  sure  he  was  a  giant. 

"You  are  wrong,"  I  said  with  dignity.  "He  is  either 
a  Junk  or  a  Docker." 

The  lid  was  spiked  down  after  that,  and  our  visitor 
never  appeared  again.  But  I  saw  him  vividly  in  my 
mind's  eye — his  shaggy  wild  head  rising  up  among  our 
flowers.  Vaguely  I  felt  that  he  came  from  the  harbor. 

As  the  exciting  weeks  of  my  life  went  on  I  discovered 
three  good  holes  in  that  ivy-covered  fence  of  ours.  These 
all  became  my  secret  holes,  and  through  them  I  watched 
the  street  below,  a  bleak  bare  chasm  of  a  street  which 
when  the  trucks  came  by  echoed  till  it  thundered.  Across 
the  street  rose  the  high  gray  front  of  my  father's  ware- 


THE    HARBOR  7 

house.  It  was  part  of  a  solid  line  of  similar  gray  brick 
buildings,  and  it  was  like  my  father,  it  was  grim  and  silent, 
you  could  not  see  inside.  Over  its  five  tiers  of  windows 
black  iron  shutters  were  fastened  tight.  From  time  to 
time  a  pair  of  these  shutters  would  fly  open,  disclosing  a 
dark  cave  behind,  out  of  which  men  brought  barrels  and 
crates  and  let  them  down  by  ropes  into  the  trucks  on  the 
street  below.  How  they  spun  round  and  round  as  they 
came  S  But  most  of  the  trucks  drove  rumbling  into  a  tun 
nel  which  led  through  the  warehouse  out  to  my  father's 
dock,  out  to  the  ships  and  the  harbor.  And  from  that  mys 
terious  region  long  lines  of  men  came  through  the  tunnel 
at  noontime,  some  nearly  naked,  some  only  in  shirts,  men 
with  the  hairiest  faces.  They  sat  on  the  street  with  their 
backs  to  the  warehouse  wall,  eating  their  dinners  out  of 
pails,  and  from  other  pails  they  took  long  drinks  of  a 
curious  stuff  all  white  on  top.  Some  of  them  were  always 
crossing  the  street  and  disappearing  from  my  view  into  a 
little  store  directly  underneath  me.  Belle  spoke  of  this 
store  as  a  "vile  saloon"  and  of  these  men  as  "dockers." 
So  I  knew  what  Dockers  were  at  last!  In  place  of  the 
one  who  lived  under  our  garden  and  had  burst  up  among 
the  flowers,  I  saw  now  that  there  were  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  of  men  like  him  down  there  on  the  docks.  And  all 
belonged  to  the  harbor. 

Their  work  I  learned  was  to  load  the  ships  whose  masts 
and  spars  peeped  up  at  me  over  the  warehouse  roofs. 
From  my  nursery  window  above  I  could  see  them  better., 
Sometimes  they  had  large  white  sails  and  then  they  moved 
off  somewhere.  I  could  see  them  go,  these  tall  ships,  with 
their  sails  making  low,  mysterious  sounds,  flappings, 
spankings  and  deep  boomings.  The  men  on  them  sang 
the  weirdest  songs  as  they  pulled  all  together  at  the  ropes. 
Some  of  these  songs  brought  a  lump  in  your  throat.  Where 
were  they  going?  "To  heathen  lands,"  Belle  told  me. 
What  did  she  mean?  I  was  just  going  to  ask  her.  But 
then  I  stopped — I  did  not  dare !  From  up  the  river,  under 


8  THE    HARBOR 

the  sweeping  arch  of  that  Great  Bridge  which  seemed  higK 
as  the  clouds,  came  more  tall  ships,  and  low  "steamers" 
belching  smoke  and  "tugs"  and  "barges"  and  "ferry 
boats."  The  names  of  all  these  I  learned  from  Belle  and 
Anny  the  cook  and  my  mother.  And  all  were  going  "to 
heathen  lands."  What  in  the  world  did  Belle  mean  by 
that? 

Once  I  thought  I  had  it.  I  saw  that  some  of  these 
smaller  boats  were  just  going  across  the  river  and  stop 
ping  at  the  land  over  there,  a  land  so  crowded  with  build 
ings  you  could  barely  see  into  it  at  all.  "Is  that  a  heathen 
land  ?"  I  asked  her.  "Yes !"  said  Belle.  And  she  laughed. 
She  was  Scotch  and  very  religious.  But  later  I  heard  her 
call  it  "New  York"  and  say  she  was  going  there  herself 
to  buy  herself  some  corsets.  And  so  I  was  even  more  puz 
zled  than  ever.  For  some  deep  instinct  told  me  you  could 
buy  no  corsets  in  "heathen  lands" — least  of  all  Belle's 
corsets. 

She  often  spoke  of  "the  ocean,"  too,  another  place 
where  the  tall  ships  went.  But  what  was  the  ocean  ?  "It's 
like  a  lake,  but  mightier,"  Belle  had  said.  But  what  was 
a  lake?  It  was  all  so  vague  and  confusing.  Always  it 
came  back  to  this,  that  I  had  no  more  seen  the  "ocean" 
than  I  had  seen  a  "heathen  land,"  and  so  I  did  not  know 
them. 

But  I  knew  the  harbor  by  day  and  by  night,  on  bright 
sunny  days  and  in  fogs  and  rains,  in  storms  of  wind,  in 
whirling  snow,  and  under  the  restful  stars  at  night  that 
twinkled  down  from  so  far  above,  while  the  shadowy 
region  below  twinkled  back  with  stars  of  its  own,  restless, 
many-colored  stars,  yellow,  green  and  red  and  blue,  mov 
ing,  dancing,  flaring,  dying.  And  all  these  stars  had 
voices,  too.  By  night  in  my  bed  I  could  hear  them — 
hoots  and  shrieks  from  ferries  and  tugs,  hoarse  coughs 
from  engines  along  the  docks,  the  whine  of  wheels,  the 
clang  of  bells,  deep  blasts  and  bellows  from  steamers.  And 
closer  still,  from  that  "vile  saloon"  directly  under  the 


THE   HARBOR  9 

garden,  I  could  hear  wild  shouts  and  songs  and  roars  of 
laughter  that  came,  I  learned,  not  only  from  dockers,  but 
from  "stokers"  and  "drunken  sailors,"  men  who  lived 
right  inside  the  ships  and  would  soon  be  starting  for 
heathen  lands! 

"I  wonder  how  I'd  feel,"  I  would  think,  "if  I  were  out 
in  the  garden  now — out  in  the  dark  all  by  myself — right 
.above  that  vile  saloon!" 

This  would  always  scare  me  so  that  I  would  bury  my 
head  in  the  covers  and  shake.  But  I  often  did  this,  for  I 
liked  to  be  scared.  It  was  a  game  I  had  all  by  myself 
with  the  harbor. 

And  yet  this  old  man  in  the  pulpit  called  it  a  place 
where  you  went  to  rest! 

Twenty-five  years  have  gone  since  then,  and  all  that  I 
can  remember  now  of  anything  Henry  Ward  Beecher  said 
was  this — that  once,  just  once,  I  heard  him  speak  of  some 
thing  that  I  knew  about,  and  that  when  he  did  he  was 
wrong. 

And  though  all  the  years  since  then  have  been  for  me 
one  long  story  of  a  harbor,  restless,  heaving,  changing, 
always  changing — it  has  never  changed  for  me  in  this — it 
has  never  seemed  a  haven  where  ships  come  to  dock,  but 
always  a  place  from  which  ships  start  out — into  the 
storms  and  the  fogs  of  the  seas,  over  the  "ocean"  to 
"heathen  lands."  For  so  I  saw  it  when  I  was  a  child,  the 
.threshold  of  adventures. 


CHAPTER   II 

'As  I  walked  home  from  church  with  my  mother  that 
day  the  streets  seemed  as  quiet  and  safe  as  her  eyes.  How 
suddenly  tempting  it  seemed  to  me,  this  quiet  and  this 
safety,  compared  to  the  place  where  I  was  going.  For  I 
had  decided  to  run  away  from  my  home  and  my  mother 
that  afternoon,  down  to  the  harbor  to  see  the  world.  What 
would  become  of  me  'way  down  there?  What  would  she 
do  if  I  never  came  back  ?  A  lump  rose  in  my  throat  at  the 
thought  of  her  tears.  It  was  terrible. 

"All  the  same  I  am  going  to  do  it,"  I  kept  thinkin& 
doggedly.     And  yet  suddenly,  as  we  reached  our  fron 
steps,  how  near  I  came  to  telling  her.    But  no,  she  woulc 
only  spoil  it  all.    She  wanted  me  always  up  in  the  garden 
she  wanted  me  never  to  have  any  thrills. 

My  mother  knew  me  so  well.  She  had  seen  that  when 
she  read  stories  of  fairies,  witches  and  goblins  out  of  my 
books  to  Sue  and  me,  while  Sue,  though  two  years  younger 
would  sit  there  like  a  little  dark  imp,  her  black  eyes  snap 
ping  over  the  fights,  I  would  creep  softly  out  of  the  room 
ashamed  and  shaken,  and  would  wait  in  the  hall  outsid 
till  the  happy  ending  was  in  plain  view.  So  my  mothe 
had  gradually  toned  down  all  the  fights  and  the  killings 
the  witches  and  the  monsters,  and  much  to  my  disappoim 
ment  had  wholly  shut  out  the  gory  pirates  who  were  fo 
me  the  most  frightfully  fascinating  of  all.  Sometimes 
felt  vaguely  that  for  this  she  had  her  own  reason,  too— 
that  my  mother  hated  everything  that  had  to  do  with  th 
ocean,  especially  my  father's  dock  that  made  him 
gloomy  and  silent.  But  of  this  I  could  never  be  quit 
sure.  I  would  often  watch  her  intently,  with  a  sud 

10 


THE   HARBOR  11 

den  sharp  anxiety,  for  I  loved  my  mother  with  all  my 
soul  and  I  could  not  bear  to  see  her  unhappy. 

"Never  on  any  account,"  I  heard  her  say  to  Belle,  "are 
the  children  to  go  down  the  street  toward  the  docks." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Belle.     "I'll  see  to  it." 

At  once  I  wanted  to  go  there.  The  street  in  front  of 
our  house  sloped  abruptly  down  at  the  next  corner  two  | 
blocks  through  poorer  and  smaller  houses  to  a  cobblestone 
space  below,  over  which  trucks  clattered,  plainly  on  their 
way  to  the  docks.  So  I  could  go  down  and  around  by  that 
way.  How  tempting  it  all  looked  down  there.  Above  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  the  elevated  railroad  made  a  sharp 
bend  on  its  way  to  the  Bridge,  trains  roared  by,  high  over 
all  the  Great  Bridge  swept  across  the  sky.  And  below  all 
this  and  more  thrilling  than  all,  I  caught  glimpses  of 
strange,  ragged  boys.  "Micks,"  BeKe  sometimes  called 
them,  and  sometimes,  "Finian  Mickies."  Up  here  I  had 
no  playmates. 

From  now  on,  our  garden  lost  its  charms.  Up  the  nar 
row  courtway  which  ran  along  the  side  of  the  house  I 
would  slip  stealthily  to  the  front  gate  and  often  get  a  good 
look  down  the  street  before  Belle  sharply  called  me  back. 
The  longest  looks,  I  found,  were  always  on  Sunday  after 
noons,  when  Belle  would  sit  back  there  in  the  garden,  close 
to  the  bed  of  red  tulips  which  encircled  a  small  fountain 
made  of  two  white  angels.  Belle,  who  was  bony,  tall  and 
grim,  would  sit  by  the  little  angels  reading  her  shabby 
Bible.  Her  face  was  wrinkled  and  almost  brown,  her 
eyes  now  kind,  now  gloomy.  She  had  a  song  she  would 
sing  now  and  then.  "For  beneath  the  Union  Jack  we  will 
drive  the  Finians  back" — is  all  I  can  remember.  She  told 
me  of  witches  in  the  Scotch  hills.  At  her  touch  horrible 
monsters  rose  in  the  most  surprising  places.  In  the  bath 
tub,  for  example,  when  I  stayed  in  the  bath  too  long  she 
would  jerk  out  the  stopper,  and  as  from  the  hole  there 
came  a  loud  gurgle — "It's  the  Were-shark,"  Belle  would 
mutter.  And  I  would  leap  out  trembling. 


12  THE    HARBOR 

This  old  "Were-shark"  had  his  home  in  the  very  mid 
dle  of  the  ocean.  In  one  gulp  he  could  swallow  a  boy  of 
my  size,  and  this  he  did  three  times  each  day.  The  boys 
were  brought  to  him  by  the  "Condor,"  a  perfectly  hideous 
bird  as  large  as  a  cow  and  as  fierce  as  a  tiger.  If  ever  I 
dared  go  down  that  street  and  disobey  my  mother,  the 
Condor  would  "swoop"  down  over  the  roofs,  snatch  me  up 
in  his  long  yellow  beak  with  the  blood  of  the  last  boy  on  it, 
and  with  thunder  and  lightning  would  carry  me  off  far 
over  the  clouds  and  drop  me  into  the  Were-shark's  mouth. 

Then  Belle  would  sit  down  to  her  Bible. 

Sunday  after  Sunday  passed,  and  still  in  fascinated 
dread  I  would  steal  quietly  out  to  the  gate  and  watch  this 
street  forbidden.  Pointing  to  it  one  day,  Belle  had  de 
clared  in  awful  tones,  "Broad  is  the  way  that  leadeth  to 
destruction."  But  it  was  not  broad.  In  that  at  least  she 
was  all  wrong.  It  was  in  fact  so  narrow  that  a  Condor 
as  big  as  a  cow  might  easily  bump  himself  when  he 
"swooped."  Besides,  there  were  good  strong  lamp-posts 
where  a  little  boy  could  cling  and  scream,  and  almost  al 
ways  somewhere  in  sight  was  a  policeman  so  fat  and  heavy 
that  even  two  Condors  could  hardly  lift  him  from  the 
ground.  This  policeman  would  come  running.  My  mother 
had  said  I  must  never  be  scared  by  policemen,  because 
they  were  really  good  kind  men.  In  fact,  she  said,  it 
was  foolish  to  be  scared  by  anything  ever.  She  nsver 
knew  of  Belle's  methods  with  me. 

So  at  last  I  had  decided  to  risk  it,  and  now  the  fearful 
day  had  come.  I  could  barely  eat  my  dinner.  My  cour 
age  was  fast  ebbing  away.  In  the  dining-room  the  sun 
light  was  for  a  time  wiped  out  by  clouds,  and  I  grew  sud 
denly  happy.  It  might  rain  and  then  I  could  not  go.  But 
it  did  not  rain  nor  did  anything  I  hoped  for  happen  to  pre 
vent  my  plan.  Belle  sat  down  by  the  angels  and  was  soon 
so  deep  in  her  Bible  that  it  was  plain  I  could  easily  slip 
up  the  path.  Sue  never  looked  up  from  her  sand-pile  to 


THE   HARBOR  13 

say,  "Stop  Billy!  He's  running  away  from  home!"  With 
a  gulp  I  passed  my  mother's  window.  She  did  not  hap 
pen  to  look  out.  Now  I  had  reached  the  very  gate.  "I 
can't  go !  I  can't  open  the  gate !"  But  the  old  gate  opened 
with  one  push.  "I  can't  go!  There  is  no  policeman!" 
But  yes,  there  he  was  on  my  side  of  the  street  slowly  walk 
ing  toward  me.  My  heart  thumped,  I  could  hardly 
breathe.  In  a  moment  with  a  frantic  rush  I  had  reached 
the  nearest  lamp-post  and  was  clinging  breathless.  I  could 
not  scream,  I  shut  my  eyes  in  sickening  fear  and  waited 
for  the  rushing  of  enormous  wings. 

But  there  came  no  Condor  swooping. 

Another  rush — another  post — another  and  another! 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  little  feller  ?" 

I  looked  up  at  the  big  safe  policeman  and  laughed. 

"I'm  playing  a  game,"  I  almost  shouted,  and  ran  with 
out  touching  another  post  two  blocks  to  the  cobblestone 
space  below.  I  ran  blindly  around  it  several  times,  I 
bumped  into  a  man  who  said,  "Heigh  there !  Look  out !" 
After  that  I  strutted  proudly,  then  turned  and  ran  back 
with  all  my  might  up  the  street,  and  into  our  house  and 
up  to  my  room.  And  there  on  my  bed  to  my  great  surprise 
I  found  myself  sobbing  and  sobbing.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  I  could  stop.  I  had  had  my  first  adventure. 

I  made  many  Sunday  trips  after  that,  and  on  no  one 
of  them  was  I  caught.  For  delighted  and  proud  at  what 
I  had  done  I  kept  asking  Belle  to  talk  of  the  Condor, 
gloomily  she  piled  on  the  terrors,  and  seeing  the  awed  look 
in  my  eyes  (awe  at  my  own  courage  in  defying  such  a 
bird),  she  felt  so  sure  of  my  safety  that  often  she  would 
barely  look  up  from  her  Bible  the  whole  afternoon.  Even 
on  workdays  over  her  sewing  she  would  forget.  And  so  I 
went  "to  destruction." 

At  first  I  stayed  but  a  little  while  and  never  left  the 
cobblestone  space,  only  peering  up  into  the  steep  little 
streets  that  led  to  the  fearsome  homes  of  the  "Micks." 


14  THE   HARBOR 

But  then  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Sam.  It  happened 
through  a  small  toy  boat  which  I  had  taken  down  there 
with  the  purpose  of  starting  it  off  for  "heathen  lands." 
As  I  headed  across  the  railroad  tracks  that  led  to  the 
docks,  suddenly  Sam  and  his  gang  appeared  from  around 
a  freight  car.  I  stood  stock-still.  They  were  certainly 
J  "Micks" — ragged  and  dirty,  with  holes  in  their  shoes  and 
soot  on  their  faces.  Sam  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Heigh,  fellers,"  he  said,  "look  at  Willy's  boat." 

I  clutched  my  boat  tighter  and  turned  to  run.  But  the 
next  moment  Sam  had  me  by  the  arm. 

"Look  here,  young  feller,"  he  growled.  "You've  got 
the  wrong  man  to  do  business  with  this  time." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  any  business,"  I  gasped. 

"Smash  him,  Sam — smash  in  his  nut  for  him,"  piped 
the  smallest  Micky  cheerfully.  And  this  Sam  promptly 
proceeded  to  do.  It  was  a  wild  and  painful  time.  But 
though  Sam  was  two  years  older,  he  was  barely  any  larger 
than  I,  and  when  he  and  his  gang  had  gone  off  with  my 
boat,  as  I  stood  there  breathing  hard,  I  was  filled  with  a 
grim  satisfaction.  For  once  when  he  tried  to  wrench  the 
boat  from  me  I  had  hit  him  with  it  right  on  the  face,  and 
I  had  had  a  glimpse  of  a  thick  red  mark  across  his  cheek. 
I  tasted  something  new  in  my  mouth  and  spit  it  out.  It 
was  blood.  I  did  this  several  times,  slowly  and  impres 
sively,  till  it  made  a  good  big  spot  on  the  railroad  tie  at 
my  feet.  Then  I  walked  with  dignity  back  across  the 
tracks  and  up  "the  way  of  destruction"  home.  I  walked 
|  slowly,  planning  as  I  went.  At  the  gate  I  climbed  up  on 
i  it  and  swung.  Then  with  a  sudden  loud  cry  I  fell  off  and 
ran  back  into  the  garden  crying,  "I  fell  off  the  gate!  I 
fell  on  my  face!"  So  my  cut  and  swollen  lip  was  ex 
plained,  and  my  trips  were  not  discovered. 

I  felt  myself  growing  older  fast.  For  I  knew  that  I 
conld  both  fight  and  tell  lies,  besides  defying  the  Condor. 

In  the  next  years,  for  weeks  at  a  time  my  life  was  cen 
tered  on  Sam  and  his  gang.  How  we  became  friends,  how 


THE   HARBOR  15 

often  we  met,  by  just  what  means  I  evaded  my  nurse,  all 
these  details  are  vague  to  me  now.  I  am  not  even  sure  I 
was  never  caught.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  was  not.  For 
as  I  grew  to  be  eight  years  old,  Belle  turned  her  attention 
more  and  more  to  that  impish  little  sister  of  mine  who 
was  always  up  to  some  mischief  or  other.  There  was  the 
corner  grocer,  too,  with  whom  I  pretended  to  be  staunch 
friends.  "I'm  going  to  see  the  grocer,"  I  would  say,  when 
I  heard  Sam's  cautious  whistle  in  front  of  the  house — 
and  so  presently  I  would  join  the  gang.  I  followed  Sam 
with  a  doglike  devotion,  giving  up  my  weekly  twenty-five 
cents  instead  of  saving  it  for  Christmas,  and  in  return 
receiving  from  him  all  the  world-old  wisdom  stored  in 
that  bullet-shaped  head  of  his  which  sat  so  tight  on  his 
round  little  shoulders. 

And  though  I  did  not  realize  it  then,  in  my  tense 
crowded  childhood,  through  Sam  and  his  companions  I 
learned  something  else  that  was  to  stand  me  in  good  stead 
years  later  on.  I  learned  how  to  make  friends  with  "the 
slums."  I  discovered  that  by  making  friends  with 
"Micks"  and  "Dockers"  and  the  like,  you  find  they  are  no 
fearful  goblins,  giants  bursting  savagely  up  among  the 
flowers  of  your  life,  but  people  as  human  as  yourself,  or 
rather,  much  more  human,  because  they  live  so  close  to  the 
harbor,  close  to  the  deep  rough  tides  of  life. 

Into  these  tides  I  was  now  drawn  down — and  it  did  me 
some  good  and  a  great  deal  of  harm.  For  I  was  too  little 
those  days  for  the  harbor. 

Sam  had  the  most  wonderful  life  in  the  world.  He 
could  go  wherever  he  liked  and  at  any  hour  day  or  night. 
Once,  he  said,  when  a  "feller"  was  drowned,  he  had  stayed 
out  on  the  docks  all  night.  His  mother  always  let  him 
alone.  An  enormous  woman  with  heavy  eyes,  I  was  in 
awe  of  her  from  the  first.  The  place  that  she  kept  with 
Sam's  father  was  called  "The  Sailor's  Harbor."  It  stood 
on  a  corner  down  by  the  docks,  a  long,  low  wooden  build 
ing  painted  white,  with  twelve  tight-shuttered,  mysterious 


16  THE    HARBOR 

windows  along  the  second  story,  and  below  them  a  "Ladies' 
Entrance."  In  front  was  a  small  blackboard  with  words 
in  white  which  Sam  could  read.  "Ten  Cent  Dinners" 
stood  at  the  top.  Below  came,  "Coffee  and  rolls."  Next, 
"Ham  and  eggs."  Then  "Bacon  and  eggs."  And  then, 
, "To-day" — with  a  space  underneath  where  Sam's  fat 
^father  wrote  down  every  morning  still  more  delicious  eat 
ables*  You  got  whiffs  of  these  things  and  they  made  your 
mouth  water,  they  made  your  stomach  fairly  turn  against 
your  nursery  supper. 

But  most  of  our  time  we  spent  on  the  docks.  All  were 
roofed,  and  exploring  the  long  dock  sheds  and  climbing 
down  into  the  dark  holds  of  the  square-rigged  ships  called 
"clippers,"  we  found  logs  of  curious  mottled  wood,  huge 
baskets  of  sugar,  odorous  spices,  indigo,  camphor,  tea, 
coffee,  jute  and  endless  other  things.  Sam  knew  their 
names  and  the  names  of  the  wonder-places  they  came 
from — Manila,  Calcutta,  Bombay,  Ceylon.  He  knew  be 
sides  such  words  as  "hawser,"  "bulkhead"  and  "ebb-tide." 
And  Sam  knew  how  to  swear.  He  swore  with  a  fascinat 
ing  ease  such  words  as  made  me  shiver  and  stare.  And 
then  he  would  look  at  me  and  chuckle. 

"You  think  I'll  go  to  hell  for  this,  don't  you,"  he  asked 
me  once.  And  my  face  grew  hot  with  embarrassment,  for 
I  thought  that  he  assuredly  would. 

I  asked  him  what  were  heathen  lands,  and  he  said  they 
were  countries  where  heathen  lived.  And  what  were 
heathen  ?  Cannibals.  And  what  were  they  ? 

"Fellers  that  eat  fellers,"  he  said. 

"Alive?"  I  inquired.     He  turned  to  the  gang: 

"Listen  to  the  kid !  He  wants  to  know  if  they  eat  'em 
alive!"  Sam  spat  disgustedly.  "Naw,"  he  said.  "First 
they  roast  'em  like  any  meat.  They  roast  'em,"  he  added 
reflectively,  "until  their  skin  gets  brown  and  bubbles  out 
and  busts." 

One  afternoon  a  carriage  brought  three  travelers  for 
one  of  the  ships,  a  man,  his  wife  and  a  little  girl  with 


THE   HARBOR  17 

shining  yellow  pig-tails.  "To  be  et,"  Sam  whispered  as 
we  stood  close  beside  them.  And  then,  pointing  to  some 
of  the  half-naked  brown  men  that  made  the  crew  of 
the  ship  near  by — "cannibals,"  he  muttered.  For  a  long 
time  I  stared  at  these  eaters,  especially  at  their  lean  brown 
stomachs. 

"We're  safe  enough,"  Sam  told  me.  "They  ain't  al 
lowed  to  come  ashore."  I  found  this  very  comforting. 

But  what  a  frightful  fate  lay  in  store  for  the  little  girl 
with  pig-tails.  As  I  watched  her  I  felt  worse  and  worse. 
Why  couldn't  somebody  warn  her  in  time  ?  At  last  I  de 
cided  to  do  it  myself.  Procuring  a  scrap  of  paper  I  re 
tired  behind  a  pile  of  crates  and  wrote  in  my  large,  clumsy 
hand,  "You  look  out — you  are  going  to  be  et."  Watching 
my  chance,  I  slipped  this  into  her  satchel  and  hoped  that 
she  would  read  it  soon.  Then  I  promptly  forgot  all  about 
her  and  ran  off  into  a  warehouse  where  the  gang  had  gone 
to  slide. 

These  warehouses  had  cavernous  rooms,  so  dark  you 
could  not  see  to  the  ends,  and  there  from  between  the 
wooden  columns  the  things  from  the  ships  loomed  out  of 
the  dark  like  so  many  ghosts.  There  were  strange  sweet 
smells.  And  from  a  hole  in  the  ceiling  there  was  a  twist 
ing  chute  of  steel  down  which  you  could  slide  with  ter 
rific  speed.  We  used  to  slide  by  the  hour. 

Outside  were  freight  cars  in  long  lines,  some  motion 
less,  some  suddenly  lurching  forward  or  back,  with  a 
grinding  and  screeching  of  wheels  and  a  puffing  and  cough 
ing  from  engines  ahead.  Sam  taught  me  how  to  climb  on 
the  cars  and  how  to  swing  off  while  they  were  going.  He  • 
had  learned  from  watching  the  brakemen  that  dangerous 
backward  left-hand  swing  that  lands  you  stock-still  in  your 
tracks.  It  is  a  splendid  feeling.  Only  once  Sam's  left 
hand  caught,  I  heard  a  low  cry,  and  after  I  jumped  I 
found  him  standing  there  with  a  white  face.  His  left 
hand  hung  straight  down  from  the  wrist  and  blood  was 
dripping  from  it. 


18  THE   HARBOR 

"Shut  up,  you  damn  fool !"  he  said  fiercely. 

"I  wasn't  saying  nothing,"  I  gasped. 

"Yes,  you  was — you  was  startin'  to  cry !  Holy  Christ !" 
He  sat  down  suddenly,  then  rolled  over  and  lay  still. 
Some  one  ran  for  his  mother,  and  after  a  time  he  was  car 
ried  away.  I  did  not  see  him  again  for  some  weeks. 

We  did  things  that  were  bad  for  a  boy  of  my  size,  and  I 
saw  things  that  I  shouldn't  have  seen — a  docker  crushed 
upon  one  of  the  docks  and  brought  out  on  a  stretcher  dead, 
a  stoker  as  drunk  as  though  he  were  dead  being  wheeled 
on  a  wheelbarrow  to  a  ship  by  the  man  called  a  "crimp," 
who  sold  this  drunken  body  for  an  advance  on  its  future 
pay.  Sam  told  me  in  detail  of  these  things.  There  came 
a  strike,  and  once  in  the  darkness  of  a  cold  November  twi 
light  I  saw  some  dockers  rush  on  a  "scab,"  I  heard  the 
dull  sickening  thumps  as  they  beat  him. 

And  one  day  Sam  took  me  to  the  door  of  his  father's 
saloon  and  pointed  out  a  man  in  there  who  had  an  admir 
ing  circle  around  him. 

"He's  going  to  jump  from  the  Bridge  on  a  bet,"  Sam 
whispered.  I  saw  the  man  go.  For  what  seemed  to  me 
hours  I  watched  the  Great  Bridge  up  there  in  the  sky, 
with  its  crawling  processions  of  trolleys  and  wagons,  its 
whole  moving  armies  of  little  black  men.  Suddenly  one 
of  these  tiny  specks  shot  out  and  down,  I  saw  it  fall  below 
the  roofs,  I  felt  Sam's  hand  like  ice  in  mine.  And  this 
was  not  good  for  a  boy  of  ten. 

But  the  sight  that  ended  it  all  for  me  was  not  a  man, 

)  but  a  woman.     It  happened  one  chilly  March  afternoon 

1  when  I  fell  from  a  dock  into  water  covered  with  grease 

and  foanij  came  up  spluttering  and  terrified,  was  quickly 

hauled  to  the  dock  by  a  man  and  then  hustled  by  Sam 

and  the  gang  to  his  home,  to  have  my  clothes  dried  and  so 

not  get  caught  by  my  mother.     Scolded  by  Sam's  mother 

and  given  something  fiery  hot  to  drink,  stripped  naked 

and  wrapped  in  an  old  flannel  night-gown  and  told  to  sit 

by  the  stove  in  the  kitchen — I  was  then  left  alone  with 


THE   HARBOR  1& 

Sam.  And  then  Sam  with  a  curious  light  in  his  eyes  took 
me  to  a  door  which  he  opened  just  a  crack.  Through  the 
crack  he  showed  me  a  small  back  room  full  of  round  iron 
tables.  And  at  one  of  these  a  man,  stoker  or  sailor  I  don't 
know  which,  his  face  flushed  red  under  dirt  and  hair,  held 
in  his  lap  a  big  fat  girl  half  dressed,  giggling  and  queer, 
quite  drunk.  And  then  while  Sam  whispered  on  and  on 
about  the  shuttered  rooms  upstairs,  I  felt  a  rush  of  such 
sickening  fear  and  loathing  that  I  wanted  to  scream — but 
I  turned  too  faint. 

I  remember  awakening  on  the  floor,  Sam's  mother  furi 
ously  slapping  Sam,  then  dressing  me  quickly,  gripping 
me  tight  by  both  my  arms  and  saying, 

"You  tell  a  word  of  this  to  your  pa  and  we'll  come  up 
and  kill  you!" 

That  night  at  home  I  did  not  sleep.  I  lay  in  my  bed  and 
shivered  and  burned.  My  first  long  exciting  adventure 
was  over.  Ended  were  all  the  thrills,  the  wild  fun.  It 
was  a  spree  I  had  had  with  the  harbor,  from  the  time  I 
was  seven  until  I  was  ten.  It  had  taken  me  at  seven,  a 
plump  sturdy  little  boy,  and  at  ten  it  had  left  me  wiry, 
thin,  with  quick,  nervous  movements  and  often  dark 
shadows  under  my  eyes.  And  it  left  a  deep  scar  on  my 
early  life.  For  over  all  the  adventures  and  over  my  whole 
childhood  loomed  this  last  thing  I  had  seen,  hideous,  dis 
gusting.  For  years  after  that,  when  I  saw  or  even  thought 
of  the  harbor,  I  felt  the  taste  of  foul,  greasy  water  in  my 
.mouth  and  in  my  soul. 

So  ended  the  first  lesson. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  next  morning  as  I  started  for  school,  suddenly  in 
the  hallway  I  thought  of  what  my  mother  had  told  me — 
always  when  I  was  frightened  to  shut  my  eyes  and  speak 
to  Jesus  and  he  would  be  sure  to  make  everything  right. 
I  had  not  spoken  to  Jesus  of  late  except  to  say  "Holy 
Christ !"  like  Sam.  But  now,  so  sickened  by  Sam  and  his 
docks,  my  head  throbbing  from  the  sleepless  night,  on  the 
impulse  I  kneeled  quickly  with  my  face  on  a  chair  right 
there  in  the  hall.  But  I  found  I  was  too  ashamed  to  be 
gin. 

"If  he  would  only  ask  me,"  I  thought.  Why  didn't  he 
ask  me,  "What's  the  matter,  little  son?"  or  say,  "Now, 
you  must  tell  me  and  then  you'll  feel  better" — as  my 
mother  always  did.  But  Jesus  did  not  help  me  out.  I 
could  not  even  feel  him  near  me.  "I  will  never  tell  any 
one,"  I  thought.  And  I  felt  myself  horribly  alone. 

Help  came  from  a  quite  different  source. 

"There  he  is!     Look!" 

I  heard  Sue's  eager  whisper.  Jumping  quickly  to  my 
feet,  I  saw  in  the  library  doorway  Sue's  dark  little 
figure  and  her  mocking,  dancing  eyes  as  she  pointed  me 
out  to  our  father,  her  chum,  whose  face  wore  a  smile  of 
amusement.  In  a  moment  I  had  rushed  out  of  doors  and 
was  running  angrily  to  school,  furious  at  myself  for  pray 
ing,  furious  at  Sue  for  spying  and  at  my  father  for  that 
smile.  My  terror  was  forgotten.  No  more  telling  Jesus 
things!  I  retreated  deep  inside  of  myself  and  worked 
out  of  my  troubles  as  best  I  could. 

From  that  day  the  harbor  became  for  me  a  big  grim 
place  to  be  let  alone — like  my  father.  A  place  immeasura- 

20 


THE   HARBOR  21 

bly  stronger  than  I — like  my  father — and  like  him  harsh 
and  indifferent,  not  caring  whether  when  I  fell  into  it  I 
was  pulled  up  to  safety  or  drawn  far  down  into  grease  and 
slime.  It  made  no  difference.  I  was  nothing  to  it  one 
way  or  the  other.  And  I  was  nothing  to  my  father. 

Of  course  this  was  by  no  means  true.  As  I  look  back 
now  I  know  that  often  he  must  have  tried  to  be  kind,  that 
in  the  jar  and  worry  of  his  own  absorbing  troubled  life  he 
must  have  often  turned  to  me  and  tried  to  make  himself 
my  friend.  But  children  pass  hard  judgments.  And  if 
my  father  was  friendly  at  times  it  did  no  good.  For  he 
was  a  man — big  and  strong — and  I  was  a  small  boy  crav 
ing  his  love. 

Why  couldn't  he  really  love  me  ?  Why  couldn't  he  ask 
me  how  I  felt  or  pull  my  ear  and  say  "Hello,  Puss  ?"  He 
was  always  saying  these  things  to  Sue,  and  caring  about 
her  very  hard  and  trying  to  understand  her,  although  she 
was  nothing  but  a  girl,  two  years  younger  and  smaller  than 
I  and  far  less  interesting.  And  yet  with  her  he  was  kind 
and  tender,  curious  and  smiling,  he  watched  her  with 
wholly  different  eyes.  My  father  was  a  short,  powerful 
man,  and  though  he  was  nearly  fifty  years  old  his  hair 
was  black  and  thick  and  coarse.  At  night  he  would  rub 
his  unshaven  cheek  on  Sue's  small  cheek  and  tickle  her. 
She  would  chuckle  and  wriggle  as  though  it  were  fun.  I 
used  to  watch  this  hungrily,  and  once  I  awkwardly  drew 
close  and  offered  my  cheek  to  be  tickled.  My  father  at 
once  grew  as  awkward  as  I,  and  he  gave  me  a  rub  so  rough 
it  stung.  And  this  wasn't  fair — I  had  hoped  for  a  cuddle. 
Besides,  he  was  always  praising  Sue  when  I  knew  she 
didn't  deserve  it.  He  called  her  brave.  Once  when  he 
took  us  duck  shooting  together  a  squall  came  up  and  he 
rowed  hard,  and  Sue  sat  with  her  eyes  on  his,  smiling  and 
quite  unafraid.  At  home  that  night  I  heard  him  tell  my 
mother  how  wonderfully  brave  she  had  been,  and  of  how 
I,  on  the  other  hand,  had  gripped  the  boat  and  turned 
white  with  fear,  while  little  Sue  just  sat  and  smiled. 


22  THE   HARBOR 

"We'll  see  how  brave  she  is,"  I  thought,  and  the  next 
day  I  hit  her  in  Sam's  best  style,  fairly  "knocked  her  nut 
off,"  in  fact,  with  one  quick  blow.  "There,"  I  said  to  my 
self  while  she  screamed.  "I  guess  that  shows  how  brave 
you  are.  I  didn't  scream  when  Sam  hit  me." 

He  said  she  was  quicker  than  I  at  her  lessons.  And 
this  rankled  the  deeper  because  it  was  true.  But  I  would 
never  admit  it. 

"Of  course  she's  quick,  when  he's  always  helping  her. 
Why  doesn't  he  ever  come  and  help  me  ?"  I  would  burst 
into  tears  of  vexation.  My  father  was  unfair ! 

More  than  that,  it  was  he  and  his  dock  and  his  ware 
house,  in  the  years  that  followed  my  thrills  with  Sam,  that 
stripped  all  these  thrills  away.  A  great  ship  with  her 
spreading,  booming  white  sails  might  move  up  the  river 
from  heathen  lands  as  wonderful  and  strange  as  you 
please.  But  the  moment  she  reached  my  father's  dock 
she  became  a  dirty,  spotted  thing,  just  a  common  every 
day  part  of  his  business. 

He  himself  was  nothing  but  business.  His  business  was 
with  ships  and  the  sea,  and  yet  he  had  never  once  in  his 
life  taken  a  long  sea  voyage.  "Why  doesn't  he?  Why 
does  he  like  only  tiresome  things?"  I  argued  secretly  to 
myself.  "Why  does  he  always  come  ashore  ?"  He  always 
did.  In  my  memories  of  ships  sailing  I  see  him  always 
there  on  deck  talking  to  the  captain,  scowling,  wrinkling 
his  eyes  over  the  smoke  of  his  cigar,  but  always  coming 
down  the  gang-plank  at  the  end,  unconcernedly  turning 
his  back  on  all  the  excitement  and  going  back  to  his  ware 
house. 

He  could  get  excited  about  ships,  but  only  in  the  queer 
est  way  that  had  something  to  do  with  his  business.  Late 
one  night  from  my  bed  I  heard  his  voice  downstairs,  cut 
ting  and  snarling  through  other  voices.  I  got  out  of  bed 
and  stole  downstairs  and  along  the  half-lit  hall  to  the 
library  door,  and  there  from  behind  the  curtain  I  watched 
what  was  going  on  inside.  The  library  was  full  of  men, 


THE   HARBOR  23 

grave,  courteous-looking  gentlemen,  some  of  them  angry, 
some  merely  amused.  My  father  was  leaning  over  his 
table  talking  of  ships,  of  mysterious  things  that  he  said 
must  be  done  with  battleships  and  tariffs. 

"And  mark  me,  gentlemen,"  he  cried.  "If  we  don't 
do  these  things  in  time  American  sails  will  be  swept  from 
the  seas !" 

Listening,  I  got  a  picture  of  an  immense  broom  reach 
ing  out  of  the  clouds  and  sweeping  American  ships  off  the 
ocean.  But  I  could  make  nothing  of  this  at  the  time.  I 
only  watched  his  face  and  eyes  and  his  fist  that  came  down 
with  a  crash  on  the  table.  And  I  was  afraid  of  my  father. 

When  ships  lay  at  his  dock  the  captains  often  came  up 
to  dinner.  But  even  these  marvelous  creatures  lost  in 
my  father's  presence  all  that  Sam  had  given  them  in  my 
eyes.  They  did  not  like  my  mother,  they  ate  in  uneasy 
silence,  or  spoke  gruffly  of  their  dull  affairs.  Once  or 
twice  I  heard  talk  of  mutinies,  of  sailors  shot  down  or  put 
in  irons,  but  all  in  a  matter-of-fact  sort  of  way.  Mere 
grunts  came  from  my  father.  Steadily  drearier  grew  the 
ocean,  flatter  all  the  heathen  lands. 

One  stout,  red-faced  captain,  jovial  even  in  spite  of  my 
mother,  would  annoy  me  frightfully  by  joking  about  my 
going  to  sea.  He  was  always  asking  me  when  I  meant  to 
run  away  and  be  "a  bloody  pirate."  He  took  it  for  granted 
I  liked  the  sea,  was  thrilled  by  the  sea,  when  the  truth 
of  it  was  that  I  hated  the  sea !  It  was  business  now,  only 
business ! 

My  father's  warehouse,  too,  lost  its  mystery  as  I  grew 
older.  For  exploring  into  its  darkness  I  found  that  of 
course  it  did  have  walls  like  any  common  building.  The 
things  in  it,  too,  lost  their  wonder.  It  was  as  though  my 
father  had  packed  all  the  rich  and  romantic  Far  East  into 
common  barrels  and  crates  and  then  nailed  down  the  cov 
ers.  And  he  himself  became  for  me  as  common  as  his 
warehouse.  For  in  his  case,  too,  I  could  see  the  walls. 

"I  know  you  now,"  I  thought  to  myself.     He  could  sit 


24  THE   HARBOR 

through  supper  night  after  night  and  not  utter  a  word  m 
his  gloom.  But  the  mystery  in  him  was  gone.  Business, 
nothing  but  business.  A  man  and  a  place  to  be  let  alone. 

But  it  was  my  mother  more  than  anyone  else  who  drew 
me  away  from  the  harbor.  All  through  those  early  years 
she  was  the  one  who  never  changed,  the  strong  sure  friend 
I  could  always  come  back  to.  My  mother  was  as  safe  as 
our  house. 

She  was  a  small,  slender  woman  grown  bodily  stronger 
year  by  year  by  the  sheer  force  of  her  spirit.  I  remember 
her  smoothly  parted  hair,  brown  but  showing  gray  at  forty, 
the  strong,  lined  face  and  the  kindly  eyes  which  I  saw 
so  often  lighted  by  that  loving  smile  of  hers  for  me. 
If  my  father  didn't  care  for  me,  I  was  always  sure  she 
did.  I  could  feel  her  always  watching,  trying  to  under 
stand  what  I  was  thinking  and  feeling.  As  when  I  was 
very  small  she  toned  down  the  stories  she  read,  so  she  did 
in  everything  else  for  me,  even  in  her  religion.  Though 
she  was  a  strong  church  woman,  I  heard  little  from  her 
of  the  terrors  of  hell.  But  I  heard  much  of  heaven  and 
more  still  of  a  heaven  on  earth.  "Thy  will  be  done  on 
earth  as  it  is  in  heaven."  I  can  never  forget  how  she 
spoke  those  words  as  I  knelt  and  repeated  them  after  her 
— not  so  much  in  the  tone  of  a  prayer  to  a  higher  being 
as  in  one  of  quiet  resolve  to  herself.  To  do  her  share, 
through  church  and  hospital  and  charity  work  and  the 
bringing  up  of  her  children,  her  share  in  the  establishment 
of  a  heaven  upon  the  earth,  this  was  her  religion. 

And  this  heaven  on  earth  of  my  mother's  was  made  up 
of  all  that  was  "fine"  in  humanity  past  and  present. 
"Fine,  fine!"  she  would  say  of  some  kind  deed,  of  some 
new  plan  for  bettering  life,  or  of  some  book  she  was  read 
ing,  some  music  she  had  heard,  or  of  a  photograph  ef  some 
great  painting  over  in  Europe.  All  her  life  she  had  wanted 
to  go  abroad. 


THE   HARBOR  25 

My  mother  was  one  of  those  first  American  women  who 
went  to  college,  and  one  of  that  army  sent  out  from  col 
lege  as  school  teachers  all  over  the  land.  She  had  taught 
school  in  frontier  hamlets  far  out  West,  homesick  she  had 
looked  back  on  the  old  college  town  in  ISFew  England,  and 
those  ten  years  of  her  life  out  West  had  been  bare  and 
hard,  an  exile.  At  last  she  had  secured  a  position  in  an 
expensive  girls'  school  in  ISTew  York,  and  from  there  a 
few  years  later  she  had  married  my  father.  I  think  they 
had  been  happy  at  first,  I  think  that  his  work  with  the 
ships  had  seemed  to  her  a  gateway  leading  out  to  Europe, 
to  all  the  very  "finest"  things.  But  later,  as  he  set  his 
whole  mind  upon  his  warehouse  worries,  upon  his  fight 
for  Yankee  ships,  a  navy,  subsidies,  tariffs,  and  shut  out 
all  thought  of  travel,  culture,  friends,  all  but  the  bare, 
ugly  business  of  life — my  mother  had  rebelled  against 
this,  had  come  to  hate  his  harbor,  and  had  determinedly 
set  herself  to  help  me  get  what  she  had  missed. 

I  don't  mean  that  she  babied  me.  She  was  too  good  a 
teacher  fo*  that.  I  mean  she  steered  me  through  hard 
work  away  from  what  she  saw  in  the  harbor  up  toward 
what  she  felt  was  fine.  She  began  when  I  was  very  little 
giving  me  daily  lessons  at  home  in  the  brief  time  she  had 
to  spare  from  her  house  and  charity  work.  She  made  me 
study  and  she  studied  me.  My  mother,  sooner  or  later, 
seemed  to  find  out  all  I  did  or  felt. 

Often  I  would  hold  stubbornly  back.  While  I  was  going 
with  Sam  to  the  docks  I  never  once  gave  her  a  hint  of  my 
rovings.  It  was  not  until  two  years  after  that  drunken 
woman  disaster  that  I  suddenly  told  my  mother  about  it. 
I  remember  then  she  did  not  chide.  Instead  she  caught 
the  chance  to  draw  out  of  me  all  I  had  learned  from  the 
harbor.  I  talked  to  her  long  that  night,  but  she  said  little 
in  reply.  I  can  vividly  remember,  though,  how  she  came 
to  me  a  few  days  later  and  placed  a  "book  for  young  men" 
in  my  hands. 


•26  THE    HARBOR 

"You  are  only  twelve,"  she  said.  "It's  a  pity.  But 
after  what  you  have  seen,  my  son,  it  is  better  that  you 
know." 

She  did  this  twenty  years  ago.  It  was  far  in  advance 
of  what  most  parents  did  then  or  are  doing  even  now  for 
their  children.  And  it  threw  a  flood  of  light  into  the 
darkest  place  in  my  mind,  swept  away  endless  forebod 
ings,  secret  broodings  over  what  until  then  had  seemed  to 
me  the  ugliest,  the  dirtiest,  the  most  frightening  thing  I 
had  found  in  life. 

"When  you  meet  anything  ugly  or  bad,"  she  told  me, 
"I  don't  want  you  to  turn  away  at  once,  I  want  you  to  face 
it  and  see  what  it  is.  Understand  it  and  then  leave  it,  and 
then  it  won't  follow  you  in  the  dark." 

"Keep  clean,"  she  said.  And  understanding  me  as  she 
did,  I  think  she  added  to  herself,  "And  I  must  keep  you 
quiet."  She  once  told  me  she  hoped  that  when  I  grew 
up  I  might  become  a  professor  in  one  of  those  college 
towns  she  loved,  where  I  might  work  all  my  life  in  peace. 

Although  she  never  said  anything  to  me  against  the  har 
bor,  I  knew  that  my  mother  put  all  the  ugliest  things  in 
life  down  there.  And  the  things  that  were  fine  were  all 
up  here. 

"I  always  like  the  front  door  of  a  house,"  she  used  to 
say,  "to  be  wide  and  low  with  only  a  step  or  two  leading 
up.  I  like  it  to  look  hospitable,  as  though  always  waiting 
for  friends  to  come  in." 

Our  front  door  was  like  that,  and  the  neighborhood  it 
waited  for  was  one  of  the  quietest,  the  cleanest  and  the 
finest,  according  to  her  view,  of  any  in  the  country.  The 
narrow  little  street  had  wide,  leisurely  sidewalks  and  old- 
fashioned  houses  on  either  side,  a  few  of  red  brick,  but 
more  of  brown  stone  with  spotless  white-sashed  windows 
which  were  tall  and  narrow  and  rounded  at  the  top.  There 
were  no  trees,  but  there  were  many  smooth,  orderly  vines. 
Almost  all  the  houses  had  wide,  inviting  doorways  like 
ours,  but  the  people  they  invited  in  were  only  those  who 


THE    HARBOR  27 

lived  quietly  here,  shutting  out  New  York  and  all  the 
toots  and  rumblings  of  the  ships  and  warehouses  and 
docks  below,  of  which  they  themselves  were  the  owners. 

These  people  in  their  leisurely  way  talked  of  literature 
and  music,  of  sculpture  and  painting  and  travel  abroad, 
as  their  fathers  and  even  grandfathers  had  done — in  times 
when  the  rest  of  the  country,  like  one  colossal  harbor, 
changing,  heaving,  seething,  had  had  time  for  only  the 
crudest  things,  for  railroads,  mining  camps,  belching  mills, 
vast  herds  of  cattle  and  droves  of  sheep,  for  the  frontier 
towns  my  mother  had  loathed,  for  a  Civil  War,  for  a 
Tweed  Ring,  for  the  Knights  of  Labor,  a  Haymarket  riot, 
for  the  astounding  growth  of  cities,  slums,  corporations 
and  trusts,  in  this  deep  turbulent  onward  rush,  this  peo 
pling  of  a  continent. 

And  because  my  father,  crude  and  self-made  and  come 
out  of  the  West,  was  of  this  present  country,  he  was  an 
intruder  politely  avoided  by  these  people  of  the  past. 
The  men  would  come  sometimes  at  night,  but  they  came 
only  on  business.  They  went  straight  through  to  the 
library,  whence  I  could  hear  my  father's  voice,  loud,  im 
patient,  angry,  talking  of  what  must  be  done  soon,  or  Ger 
many  and  England  would  drive  the  American  flag  from 
the  ocean  and  make  us  beggars  on  the  seas,  humbly  ask 
ing  the  ships  of  our  rivals  to  give  us  a  share  in  the  trade 
of  the  world.  To  such  disturbing  meetings  these  grave 
and  courteous  gentlemen  came  less  and  less  as  the  years 
went  by. 

And  so  that  hospitable  front  door  of  ours  waited  long 
for  neighbors. 


CHAPTEK   IV 

BUT  if  my  father  was  an  intruder,  a  disturber  of  the 
peace  of  these  contented  gentlemen,  my  mother  was  more 
and  more  liked  by  their  wives.  As  time  wore  on  they 
came  to  our  house  in  the  afternoons,  upon  hospital  and 
church  affairs.  And  first  in  the  church  and  then  in  a  pri 
vate  school  near  by  I  grew  to  be  friends  with  their  chil 
dren. 

Across  the  street  from  us  at  the  corner  there  stood  a 
huge,  square  brownstone  house  with  a  garden  and  a  wide 
yard  around  it.  Two  boys  and  a  little  girl  lived  here,  and 
about  them  our  small  circle  centered.  Here  we  played 
hockey  in  winter,  part  of  the  yard  being  flooded  for  our 
use;  and  in  Spring  and  Autumn,  ball,  tag,  I  spy,  prison 
er's  base  and  other  games.  They  were  all  well  enough  as 
far  as  they  went,  but  all  were  so  very  young  and  tame 
compared  to  my  former  adventures  with  Sam.  Adven 
tures,  that  was  the  difference.  These  were  only  games. 

I  felt  poor  beside  these  boys,  in  this  ample  yard  by 
their  grandfather's  house.  I  often  saw  his  great  carriage 
roll  out  of  the  stable  behind  the  yard.  "Coach,"  they 
called  it.  It  had  rich  silver  trimmings  and  a  red  thing 
called  a  "crest,"  and  a  footman  and  coachman  in  top 
boots.  Inside  the  house  was  a  butler  who  was  still  more 
imposing,  and  a  lofty  room  with  spacious  windows  called 
the  picture  gallery.  But  by  far  the  most  awesome  of  all 
was  the  white-headed  grandfather  of  these  boys,  who  had 
been  to  Europe  twenty-eight  times  and  could  read  and 
speak  "every  language  on  earth,"  as  I  was  told  in  whispers 
while  we  peeped  in  through  his  library  door.  There  he 
sat  with  all  his  books,  a  man  so  rich  he  never  even  went, 

23 


THE   HARBOR  29 

to  his  office,  a  man  who  had  owned  not  only  warehouses 
but  hundreds  of  ships  and  had  sent  them  to  every  land 
in  the  world !  While,  as  for  me,  my  grandfather  was  not 
even  alive.  I  felt  poor  and  small,  and  I  did  not  like  it. 

Besides,  these  unadventurous  boys  all  put  me  down  as 
"a  queer  kid."  I  was  middling  good  at  most  of  their 
games  and  would  get  sudden  spurts  when  I  would  become 
almost  a  leader.  But  at  other  times,  often  right  in  the 
middle  of  a  game,  I  would  suddenly  forget  where  I  was 
and  would  think  of  Sam,  of  the  cannibals  that  I  had  seen, 
of  the  man  who  had  jumped  from  the  Great  Bridge,  or  of 
that  drunken  woman.  They  would  catch  me  at  it  and  call 
me  queer.  And  I  would  grow  hot  and  feel  ashamed. 

On  the  other  hand,  poor  and  queer  as  I  felt  at  times,  at 
others  I  would  swell  with  my  wisdom  and  importance. 
For  what  did  they  know,  these  respectable  boys,  about 
the  docks  and  the  gangs  of  "Micks"  deep  down  there  below 
us  all  as  we  played  about  in  our  nice  little  gardens.  When 
they  called  me  queer,  sometimes  I  would  retort  with  dark 
hints,  all  games  would  stop,  they  would  gather  close,  and 
then  I  would  tell  these  intense  eager  boys  the  things  I  had 
learned  from  the  harbor.  And  I  had  the  more  pleasure  in 
the  telling  from  the  feeling  of  relief  that  now  I  was  safe 
away  from  it  all. 

"That's  the  real  thing,  that  is,"  I  would  declare  impres 
sively.  But  how  good  it  felt  to  me  to  be  free  of  such  re 
ality. 

At  such  times  we  made  "the  Chips"  stay  over  on  their 
side  of  the  yard.  "The  Chips"  were  three  small  admiring 
girls.  One  was  my  young  sister  Sue,  who  was  then  about 
nine  years  old,  long-legged,  skinny  and  quick  as  a  flash, 
her  black  hair  always  flying.  The  second,  a  plump 
freckled  girl,  was  the  younger  sister  of  the  boys  who  lived 
here.  And  the  third  was  a  quiet  little  thing  who  lived 
around  the  corner.  We  called  them  "Chips"  to  annoy 
them.  We  got  the  term  from  the  stout  coachman  in  the 


30  THE    HARBOR 

barn  who  used  it  with  a  fine  sweeping  contempt  that  in 
cluded  all  his  lady  friends.  We  ourselves  had  the  most 
profound  contempt  for  these  girls  who  kept  poking  into 
our  games.  At  times  we  would  stop  everything  and  take 
the  utmost  pains  to  explain  to  them  that  they  were  nothing 
whatever  but  girls.  And  this  would  make  Sue  furious. 
She  would  screw  up  her  snapping  black  eyes  and  viciously 
stick  out  her  tongue  and  stamp  her  foot  and  say  "darn!" 
to  show  she  could  swear  like  a  regular  kid.  And  still 
they  hung  around  us. 

But  as  time  wore  on  we  grew  more  indulgent,  we  in 
cluded  them  more  and  more.  And  this  was  largely  due 
to  me.  For  I  took  a  vague  curious  interest  in  the  one 
who  lived  around  the  corner. 

Her  name  was  Eleanore  Dillon  and  her  age  was  eight, 
and  she  had  attractions  that  slowly  grew.  To  begin  with, 
as  I  became  gradually  aware,  she  was  much  the  prettiest 
of  the  three.  She  had  light  curly  hair  tied  up  in  red  rib- 
bons,  always  fresh,  red  ribbons.  Everything  about  her 
was  always  fresh  and  clean.  She  had  the  most  serious 
blue  eyes,  which  at  times  would  grow  intent  on  what  a 
tall  chap  of  twelve  like  myself  condescended  to  tell  her, 
and  at  other  times  wondrously  confiding. 

Eleanore  first  attracted  me  by  making  me  a  hero.  It 
was  a  warm  May  afternoon  and  she  was  sitting  on  the 
grass  with  her  doll  and  her  two  companions.  Sue  had 
stolen  some  matches  and  was  using  them  as  Jackstraws. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  scream,  then  I  saw  Sue  racing  like 
mad  toward  the  garden  hose,  and  I  saw  that  the  white 
skirt  of  Eleanore's  dress  had  caught  fire.  As  yet  there  was 
only  a  little  flame.  She  was  sitting  still  motionless  on 
the  grass,  hugging  her  doll,  with  scared  round  eyes.  I 
got  to  her  first  and  with  my  cap  I  beat  out  the  flame.  I 
was  suddenly  panting,  my  hands  were  cold.  But  a  few 
moments  later,  when  Sue  and  two  of  the  boys  came  tug 
ging  the  hose,  it  as  suddenly  flashed  upon  me  that  I  had 
done  a  heroic  thing. 


THE   HARBOR  31 

"Get  out !"  I  shouted  scornfully,  as  they  started  to  play 
the  hose  on  her.  "Can't  you  see  the  whole  fire  is  out  ?" 

And  then  while  the  plump  freckled  girl  came  screech 
ing  out  of  the  kitchen  with  half  the  servants  behind  her, 
and  presently  these  servants  all  called  me  "a  little  heero" 
• — the  one  whom  I  had  rescued  looked  up  at  me  very  grate 
fully  and  said, 

"Thank  you,  Boy,  for  not  letting  them  squirt  water 
on  my  dolly's  clean  dress." 

"Aw,  what  do  I  care  for  a  doll?"  I  retorted  ungra 
ciously. 

But  I  liked  her  from  that  day.  She  was  not  at  all  like 
Sue.  She  was  quiet  and  knew  her  place.  She  knew  that 
she  was  only  a  girl,  how  thoroughly  well  she  knew  it.  And 
yet,  although  so  feminine,  so  deliberate  and  sedate,  she 
had  "a  pile  of  ginger"  deep  down  inside  of  her.  In  our 
games,  whenever  allowed  to  play,  with  a  dogged  resolution 
she  would  come  pegging  along  in  the  rear,  she  was  a 
sticker,  she  never  gave  up.  In  winter  when  they  flooded 
the  yard  she  was  the  poorest  skater  of  all,  but  patiently 
plodding  along  on  the  ice,  each  time  she  fell  down  she 
would  pick  herself  up  with  such  determination  that  at 
last  with  a  jerk  at  her  arm  I  said, 

"Here,  Chip,  come  on  and  I'll  teach  you." 

She  came  on.  I  can  still  feel  her  soft  determined  clutch 
on  my  elbow.  When  I  said,  "That's  enough,"  she  said, 
"Thank  you,  Boy,"  and  went  quietly  on  alone. 

After  that  I  taught  her  many  times.  One  afternoon 
when  there  was  a  thaw,  I  said, 

"Gee,  but  this  ice  is  rotten."  And  then  Eleanore  asked 
me  placidly, 

"Do  you  like  my  pretty  new  shoes?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  I  demanded  indig 
nantly. 

"Nothing,  I  guess,"  she  said  meekly. 

This  girl  was  full  of  mysteries.  One  great  point  in 
her  favor  was  that  she  had  a  mother  "at  death's  door." 


32  THE   HARBOR 

This  appealed  to  me  tremendously.     It  was  so  unusual. 

"How's  your  mother  ?"  I  would  ask  her  often,  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  her  answer  softly, 

"She's  at  death's  door,   thank  you." 

She  soon  learned  to  skate  much  better,  and  I  remem 
ber  quite  vividly  still  the  January  afternoon  when  as 
the  darkness  deepened  a  silvery  moon  appeared  over 
head.  I  had  not  skated  with  her  for  a  week,  but  now 
we'd  been  skating  for  nearly  an  hour.  One  by  one  the 
others  went  home,  and  the  plump  girl  turned  at  the 
kitchen  door  to  call  back  to  Eleanore  tauntingly, 

"You'll  catch  it,  going  home  so  late !" 

"Never  mind,"  said  a  gentle  voice  at  my  side,  and 
round  and  round  we  skated.  The  moon  grew  steadily 
brighter.  Still  that  soft  steady  clutch  on  my  arm. 

"Now  you'd  better  go  home,"  I  said  gruffly  at  last. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked  me.  I  looked  at  my 
watch. 

"Gee!     It's  nearly  seven  o'clock!" 

"What  a  pretty  watch  that  is,"  she  said  in  a  pleased, 
quiet  voice,  but  I  was  not  to  be  diverted. 

"Go  on  home,  I  tell  you.  Sit  down  and  I'll  take  off 
your  skates."  She  sighed  regretfully  but  obeyed. 

"What'll  they  do  to  you  ?"  I  asked  her  when  we  stopped 
in  front  of  her  house. 

"They'll  try  to  punish  me,"  she  answered.  I  looked 
down  at  her  anxiously. 

"Hard  ?"  I  inquired.     She  smiled  at  me. 

"What  time  is  it  now?"  she  asked. 

"Ten  minutes  after  seven." 

"Then  they  won't  punish  me,"  she  said.  "My  father 
always  comes  home  at  seven."  And  she  went  placidly  into 
the  house. 

"A  mighty  smart  Chip,"  I  said  to  myself. 

I  had  told  her  a  little  about  the  docks,  and  one  day 
she  asked  me  to  take  her  there.  I  promptly  refused,  but 
patiently  from  time  to  time  she  repeated  her  request.  She 


THE    HARBOR  33 

wanted  me  to  take  her  "just  for  a  little  walk"  down  there, 
or  she  would  run  if  I  preferred.  She  wanted  to  come 
out  after  supper  into  her  garden,  which  was  only  the 
third  from  ours,  and  then  she  would  sing  and  I  would 
whistle.  Then  I  would  come  around  by  the  street  and 
she  would  meet  me  at  her  front  gate.  I  don't  know  how 
she  ever  persuaded  me,  but  she  did,  and  the  plan  worked 
splendidly.  At  the  gate  without  a  word  I  took  her  hand 
and  ran  down  the  street.  Soon  we  were  flying.  Down  to 
the  open  space  we  came,  and  around  across  the  railroad 
tracks.  In  and  out  among  grimy  freight  cars  we  sped. 
I  would  not  stop. 

"Christ!"  I  thought  in  terror.  "Suppose  Sam  and  the 
gang  come  around  this  way!"  I  had  not  seen  them  now 
for  years.  What  might  not  they  do  to  her? 

But  she  made  me  stop  by  my  father's  dock.  She  was 
gasping  and  her  face  was  red,  but  with  her  hand  like  a 
little  vise  on  mine  she  stood  there  staring  at  the  ship. 

"Where  are  the  heathen  ?"  she  asked  at  last,  in  a  queer 
choking  voice. 

"There."  I  pointed  to  a  small  brown  man  with  a  white 
skull-cap  on  his  head.  "There's  one.  See  kira?  Now 
come  home!" 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,"  she  begged  very  softly.  A 
moment  longer  she  stared  at  him.  "All  right,  now  we'll 
go,"  she  said. 

When  I  got  her  safe  inside  my  gate  I  was  in  a  cold 
sweat.  This  adventure,  to  my  surprise,  had  been  one  of 
the  most  thrilling  of  all.  And  who'd  have  thought  her 
an  adventurer? 

Her  mother  died  that  summer  while  we  were  up  in 
the  mountains,  and  when  we  came  back  we  found  the 
house  empty.  Her  father  had  taken  her  out  West. 

I  remember  being  distinctly  relieved  when  I  heard 
that  she  had  gone  away.  For  now  there  was  something 
uncanny  about  her.  It  was  one  thing  to  have  a  mother 
"at  death's  door."  That  had  been  quite  exciting.  But 


34  THE   HARBOR 

to  have  one  dead !  There  was  something  too  awful  about 
it.  I  would  not  have  known  what  to  say  to  the  girl.  And, 
besides,  the  thought  suddenly  entered  my  mind — suppose 
my  own  mother  were  to  die! 

We  had  been  splendid  chums,  my  mother  and  I,  that 
\o~ag  delightful  summer  up  in  the  White  Mountains.  The 
mountains,  we  had  decided  together,  were  our  favorite 
place  to  live  in.  "I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills," 
was  the  part  of  the  Bible  which  she  liked  best.  She  loved 
these  hills  for  their  quiet,  I  loved  them  for  the  exciting 
adventures  I  had  with  Sue  and  "Stouty,"  the  son  of  the 
farmer  with  whom  we  stayed.  But  these  adventures  were 
of  a  kind  that  my  mother  warmly  approved  of  for  me. 
They  were  not  like  those  on  the  harbor. 

An  adventure  to  climb  with  Stouty  and  Sue  up  through 
the  resinous  branches  of  an  enormous  pine  on  the  moun 
tainside  to  the  hawk's  nest  in  the  bare  top  branches,  snatch 
the  eggs  and  smash  them,  while  Stouty  with  a  big  thick 
stick  would  beat  off  the  mother  hawk.  An  adventure  to 
clamber  half  the  day  up  a  bouldery  path  through  firs  and 
birches,  looking  into  black  caves,  peeping  over  steep  cliffs, 
and  at  last  reaching  the  wind-swept  summit  to  look  off 
through  miles  of  emptiness.  An  adventure,  coming  home 
from  a  picnic  as  evening  was  falling,  to  sit  snug  in  that 
creaking  capacious  wagon  which  belonged  to  Stouty's 
father,  and  to  watch  the  lights  and  shadows  that  darted 
in  and  out  of  the  pines  as  the  lantern  swung  beneath  our 
wheels. 

But  even  up  here  in  the  mountains  the  harbor  reached 
with  its  cold  embrace.  For  at  night  it  was  an  adventure 
hurriedly  to  undress  and  bury  myself  in  the  covers  in 
time  to  hear  the  first  low  rumble  of  "the  night  freight" 
that  went  by  some  five  miles  distant.  It  made  me  think 
of  the  trains  on  the  docks,  whose  voices  I  had  heard  at 
night,  and  of  the  things  I  had  done  with  Sam.  I  would 
hear  the  mountain  engine  come  panting  impatiently  up 


THE    HARBOR  35 

the  grade.  As  it  reached  the  top  I  would  rise  from  my 
bed  and  soar  off  into  space,  in  one  swift  rushing  flight 
through  the  darkness  I  would  be  there  in  the  nick  of  time, 
I  would  swing  on  to  a  freight  car  in  the  way  Sam  had 
shown  me,  climb  to  the  top  and  crouching  there  I  would 
watch  the  dark  roadway  open  ahead  through  the  silent 
forest.  Lower  would  sink  the  voice  of  the  engine  until 
it  became  a  faint  confused  mutter.  And  the  rest  was 
dreamland. 

This  was  one  of  those  secret  games  I  never  told  my 
mother  about — until,  to  my  own  surprise,  in  one  of  those 
long  talks  at  night  when  she  seemed  drawing  me  to  her 
right  out  through  my  eyes,  I  blurted  this  out.  My  mother 
wanted  to  know  all  about  it.  Did  my  hands  get  cold? 
Yes,  colder  and  colder,  as  listening  here  in  bed  I  heard 
the  first  muttering  of  the  train  and  knew  that  in  a  few 
moments  more  I  would  take  that  five-mile  flight,  right 
through  the  window  and  over  the  trees  to  the  distant  track, 
to  be  there  just  ahead  of  the  on-puffing  engine.  My  voice 
quivered  excitedly  as  I  spoke. 

"I  see — I  see,"  she  said  soothingly.  "And  when  you 
are  riding  on  top  of  a  car — aren't  you  ever  frightened  ?" 

"No — because  all  the  time  I  know  that  I  am  back  there 
at  home  in  my  bed.  I  can  see  myself  back  there  behind 
me." 

"Do  you  fall  asleep  in  bed — or  are  you  still  on  the  top 
of  the  car  the  last  thing  you  can  remember?" 

"Most  always  on  the  top  of  the  car." 

"And  when  you  sleep — do  you  always  dream?" 

"Yes — that's  the  finest  part  of  it." 

"Do  you  ever  dream  of  Sam?" 

"Yes." 

"And  all  those  things  you  did  on  the  harbor?" 

"Yes— all." 

For  some  moments  she  sat  by  my  bedside  quietly  strok 
ing  one  of  my  hands. 

"Billy." 


36  THE    HARBOR 

"Yes,  mother."  I  was  growing  impatient,  I  wished 
she  would  go,  for  now  it  was  nearly  time  for  the  train. 

"Have  you  ever  played  other  games  like  that  ?  I  mean 
where  you  leave  yourself  and  look  back — and  see  your 
own  body  behind  you." 

"Yes — in  bed  in  Brooklyn  when  I  was  quite  little." 

"Where  did  you  go  from  your  bed?" 

"I  went  to  the  end  of  the  garden.  I  heard  drunken 
sailors  and  dockers  shouting  in  that  vile  saloon  below." 
This  was  not  true.  What  I  had  really  done  was  to  lie 
in  bed  and  whisper,  "Suppose  I  were  out  there" — which 
is  very  different.  I  was  too  young  then  to  have  learned 
the  real  trick.  But  now  I  was  so  proud  of  it  that  I  hon 
estly  thought  I  had  always  known  how.  "It  was  a  game 
I  had  with  the  harbor,"  I  said. 

"With  the  harbor."  I  felt  her  hand  slowly  tighten 
on  mine.  Then  all  at  once  as  we  heard  the  first  low 
grumble  of  the  freight  train  coming,  my  mother's  hold 
grew  tighter  and  tighter.  "Open  your  eyes."  I  opened 
them  quickly,  for  her  voice  was  sharp  and  stern.  She 
held  me  until  the  sound  was  gone. 

"Do  you  hear  it  any  longer?"  she  asked  quietly  at 
last. 

"No,"  I  whispered.    My  breath  still  came  fast. 

"Neither  do  I."  There  was  another  silence.  "Let's 
go  and  sit  by  the  window,"  she  said. 

And  there  she  talked  to  me  of  the  stars.  How  great 
they  were  and  how  very  quiet.  She  said  that  the  great 
est  men  in  the  world  were  almost  always  quiet  like  that. 
They  never  let  their  hands  get  cold. 

Often  after  that  in  the  evenings  just  before  I  went 
to  bed  we  had  these  talks  about  the  stars.  And  not  only 
in  the  mountains.  On  sparkling  frosty  winter  nights  we 
watched  them  over  the  harbor.  And  the  things  she  said 
about  them  were  so  utterly  absorbing  that  I  would  never 
think  to  look  down,  would  barely  hear  the  toots  and  the 
puffings  and  grinding  of  wheels  from  that  infernal  region 


THE    HARBOR  37 

below.  For  always  when  she  spoke  of  the  stars  my  mother 
spoke  of  great  men  too,  the  men  who  had  done  the  "finest" 
things — a  few  in  the  clash  and  jar  of  life  like  Washing 
ton  and  Lincoln,  but  most  of  them  more  quietly,  by  preach 
ing,  writing,  painting,  composing,  sermons,  books,  pic 
tures  and  music  so  "fine"  that  all  the  best  people  on  earth 
had  known  about  them  and  loved  them. 

As  I  grew  older  she  read  to  me  more  and  more  about 
these  men.  And  sometimes  I  would  feel  deeply  content 
as  though  I  had  found  what  I  wanted.  But  more  often 
I  would  feel  myself  swell  up  big  inside  of  me,  restless, 
worrying,  groping  for  something.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
•wanted  then,  but  I  do  know  now  as  I  look  back,  and  I 
think  there  are  thousands  of  children  like  me,  the  kind 
who  are  called  "queer  kids"  by  their  playmates,  who  are 
all  groping  for  much  the  same  thing. 

"Where  is  the  Golden  Age  to-day?"  they  are  asking. 
"We  hear  of  all  this  from  our  mothers.  We  hear  of 
brave  knights  and  warriors,  of  God  and  Christ  as  they 
walked  around  on  earth  like  regular  people,  of  saints  and 
preachers,  writers  and  painters.  But  where  are  the  great 
men  living  now  ?  Not  in  our  house  nor  on  our  street,  nor 
in  school  nor  in  our  church  on  the  corner.  There  is  noth 
ing  there  that  thrills  us.  Why  isn't  there  ?  What  is  the 
matter?  We  are  no  longer  babies,  we  are  becoming  big 
boys  and  girls.  What  will  we  do  when  we  are  grown  up  ? 
Has  everything  fine  already  been  done?  Is  there  no 
chance  for  us  to  be  great  and  to  do  them?'* 

It  was  to  questionings  like  these  that  my  mother  had 
led  me  up  from  the  harbor. 


CHAPTER   V 

to  such  questionings  I  believe  that  for  many  chil 
dren  of  my  kind  there  is  often  some  familiar  place — a 
schoolroom  or  a  commonplace  street,  or  a  dreary  farm  in 
winter,  a  grimy  row  of  factories  or  the  ugly  mouth  of  a 
mine — that  mutely  answers, 

"No.  There  are  no  more  great  men  for  you,  nor  any 
fine  things  left  to  be  done.  There  is  nothing  else  left  in 
the  world  but  me.  And  you'd  better  stop  trying  to 
find  it." 

In  my  case  this  message  came  from  the  harbor,  that 
one  part  of  the  modern  world  which  looked  up  at  me 
steadily  day  after  day.  Vaguely  struggle  as  I  would  to 
build  up  fine  things  in  the  present  from  all  that  my 
mother  brought  out  of  the  past,  the  harbor  would  not  let 
me.  For  what  I  clothed  it  soon  stripped  naked,  what  I 
built  it  soon  tore  down. 

"When  you  were  little,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "for  you  I 
was  filled  with  thrilling  idols — cannibals  and  condors, 
Sam,  strange  wonder-ships  and  sailors  adventuring  to 
heathen  lands.  But  then  I  dragged  these  idols  down  and 
made  you  see  me  as  I  am.  And  as  I  showed  myself 
to  you,  so  I'll  show  up  all  other  wondsrful  places  or  men 
that  your  mother  would  have  you  believe  in." 

It  did  this,  as  I  remember  it,  in  the  easiest  most  trivial 
ways,  like  some  huge  beast  that  flicks  off  a  fly  and  then 
lumbers  unconcernedly  on. 

My  mother  by  years  of  patient  work  had  built  up  my 
religion,  filling  it  with  the  grand  figures  of  God  and 
Christ  and  his  followers  down  to  the  present  time,  end 
ing  with  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  When  this  man  died  I 

39 


THE    HARBOR  39 

felt  awe  at  her  silent  grief.  All  at  once  the  idea  popped 
into  my  head  that  I  too  might  become  a  great  preacher. 
And  still  greater,  I  soon  learned,  I  might  become  a 
preacher  who  went  far  off  to  heathen  lands,  braving  can 
nibals  and  death  and  giving  to  thousands  of  heathen  eter 
nal  happiness  and  life.  Our  church  was  sending  out  such 
a  man.  I  heard  him  described  as  a  hero  of  God,  and  I 
thought  of  pictures  I  had  seen  of  saints  and  martyrs 
with  soft  haloes  around  their  heads. 

But  this  hero  of  God  came  down  to  the  harbor.  He 
was  to  sail  for  China  from  my  father's  dock.  He  wore, 
I  remember,  a  brown  derby  hat  and  a  little  top  coat. 
He  was  thin,  with  stooping  shoulders,  he  was  flustered 
in  the  excitement  of  leaving,  nervously  laughing  as  he 
shook  hands  with  admiring  women  and  talking  fast  in  his 
high  jerky  voice.  Two  big  dockers  trundled  his  trunks. 
I  saw  them  grin  at  the  little  man  and  spit  tobacco  juice 
his  way.  My  father  came  by,  shot  one  contemptuous 
glance,  and  then  went  on  board  to  his  business.  I  looked 
back  at  the  hero.  Off  fell  the  halo  from  his  head. 

"No,"  I  said  gloomily  to  myself,  "I  never  want  to  be 
like  you."  And  drearily  I  looked  around.  What  heaps 
and  heaps  of  business  here.  What  an  immense  gray  har 
bor.  I  found  no  more  thrills  in  church  after  that. 

And  as  with  religion,  so  with  love.  In  reading  of 
men  of  the  Golden  Age  I  came  upon  stories  of  high  ro 
mance  that  made  me  strangely  happy.  But  I  saw  no 
love  of  this  kind  in  our  house.  I  saw  my  mother  and 
father  living  sharply  separate  lives,  and  I  saw  few  kisses 
between  them.  I  saw  my  father  absorbed  in  his  business, 
with  little  time  for  my  mother.  And  I  blamed  this  on 
the  harbor.  Long  ago  the  same  grim  place  had  taught 
me  something  else  about  this  many-sided  passion  between 
men  and  women,  and  one  day  it  rose  suddenly  up  in  my 
mind: 

I  must  have  been  about  fifteen  when  my  little  friend 
Eleanore  Dillon  came  back.  Soon  she  and  Sue  were  in- 


40  THE   HAKBOR 

timate  chums,  they  went  to  school  together.  My  mother 
invited  her  up  to  the  mountains,  and  there  I  was  with 
her  a  good  deal.  She  was  now  nearly  twelve  years  old, 
and  the  life  in  the  West  with  her  father  had  left  her 
sturdy  as  you  please.  And  yet  somehow  she  still  seemed 
to  me  the  same  feminine  little  creature,  and  as  she  told 
me  stories  of  the  life  out  West,  where  her  father,  who 
was  an  engineer,  had  built  bridges,  planned  out  harbors 
and  new  cities,  I  would  wonder  vaguely  about  her.  What 
a  fresh,  clean  little  person  to  be  talking  of  such  places. 

She  was  talking  to  me  in  this  way  one  drowsy  August 
afternoon.  We  had  been  fishing  down  on  the  river,  and 
now  on  our  way  home  up  the  long  hot  slope  of  the  mea 
dow  we  had  stopped  to  cool  ourselves  in  the  shadow  of 
a  haystack.  It  was  fragrant  there.  Presently,  from  the 
top  of  the  stack  close  over  our  heads,  a  bird  poured  forth 
a  ravishing  song.  And  Eleanore  with  a  deep  "Oh-h"  of 
delight  threw  both  her  hands  behind  her  head,  sank  back 
in  the  hay  and  lay  there  close  beside  me.  Her  eyes  were 
shut  and  she  was  smiling  to  herself.  Then  as  the  song 
of  the  bird  bubbled  on,  I  felt  suddenly  a  little  shock,  a 
new  disturbing  feeling.  Breathlessly  I  watched  her  face. 
The  song  stopped  and  Eleanore  opened  her  eyes,  met 
mine,  and  closed  them  quickly.  I  saw  a  slight  tighten 
ing  of  her  features.  I  grew  anxious  at  once  and  awk 
ward.  I  wanted  to  get  away. 

But  as  I  made  a  first  uneasy  movement,  a  bit  of  bright 
color  caught  my  eye.  It  was  one  of  her  red  garters  which 
had  slipped  down  from  beneath  her  skirt.  And  all  at 
once  out  of  my  memory  rose  a  picture  of  years  ago,  a 
picture  from  the  harbor,  of  that  fat  drunken  girl  I  had 
seen.  She  too  had  worn  red  garters — in  fact,  little  else! 
With  disgusting  vividness  up  she  came!  And  I  jumped 
trembling  to  my  feet. 

"I'm  going  home,"  I  said  roughly,  and  left  my  small 
companion. 

I  kept  away  from  her  after  that.     And  even  the  fol- 


THE   HARBOR  41 

lowing  winter,  when  she  came  over  often  to  our  house  to 
spend  the  night  with  Sue,  I  did  my  best  to  avoid  her.  I 
avoided  all  Sue's  friends.  I  did  not  keep  girls  quite  out 
of  my  thoughts,  I  had  spells  now  and  then  when  I  would 
read  about  them  in  novels,  papers  and  magazines,  any 
thing  I  could  lay  hands  on.  I  would  read  hungrily,  at 
times  almost  wistfully.  But  all  the  stories  that  I  read, 
however  romantic,  could  never  quite  overbalance  for  me 
that  giggling  woman  I  had  seen. 

"This  is  what  love  can  be  these  days,  foul  as  two  pigs 
in  a  sty,"  said  the  harbor. 

The  same  thing  happened  again  with  war  and  the  great 
idea  of  giving  one's  life  for  one's  country. 

By  countless  eager  questionings  I  had  forced  my  mother 
to  include  among  our  heroes  men  like  Napoleon,  Nelson 
and  Grant,  and  after  I  gave  up  hopes  of  the  church  these 
men  for  a  time  became  greatest  of  all.  You  needed  no 
mother  to  help  you  here.  It  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  picture  yourself  leading  charges  or  standing 
high  up  on  a  hill  like  Grant,  quietly  smoking  a  black 
cigar  and  sending  your  orderlies  on  the  mad  gallop  out 
to  all  corners  of  the  field.  My  hill  grew  very  real  to  me. 
It  had  three  wind-swept  trees  on  top  and  I  stood  just  in 
front  of  them. 

When  the  war  with  Spain  broke  out  I  was  still  in 
my  'teens,  still  rather  thin  and  by  no  means  tall, 
but  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  to  enlist.  Even 
now  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  see  again  that  long  night  on 
the  docks  when  I  watched  two  regiments  embark  on  ships 
which  were  to  sail  at  dawn.  With  the  uniforms,  the  crash 
of  bands,  the  flags,  the  cheers,  the  women  laughing  and 
crying,  the  harbor  seemed  all  on  my  side  that  night. 

"This  is  certainly  what  I  want!"  I  thought. 

But  my  father  forbade  my  going.  He  was  not  only 
stern,  he  was  savage.  For  once  he  came  out  of  himself 
and  talked.  And  his  talk  was  not  only  against  this  war 
but  against  all  wars.  The  Civil  War  was  the  worst  of  all. 


42  THE    HARBOR 

This  was  the  more  a  surprise  to  me  because  I  knew  that 
he  himself  had  been  with  the  Boys  of  Sixty  One,  I  had 
often  boasted  about  it.  But  now  I  learned  he  had  not 
fought  at  all,  he  had  been  a  mere  commissary  clerk  mov 
ing  rations  and  blankets  on  freight  trains! 

"The  business  side  of  war,"  he  said.  "And  when  you've 
seen  that  side  of  it  you  know  how  rotten  a  big  war  is! 
Men  in  the  North  made  millions  by  sending  such  rotten 
meat  to  the  front  that  we  had  to  live  on  the  people  down 
South,  we  had  to  go  into  their  farms  and  plantations  and 
plunder  defenseless  women  and  children  of  all  they  had 
to  eat !  That's  war !  And  war  is  filthy  stinking  camps 
where  men  die  of  fever  and  scurvy  like  flies — and  war  is 
field  hospitals  so  rotten  in  their  management  that  you 
see  the  wounded  in  long  lines — packed  together  like  bloody 
sardines — bleeding  to  death  for  the  lack  of  care!  When 
they're  dead  you  dig  big  trenches  and  you  pile  'em  in  like 
dogs !  In  time  of  war  remember  peace — and  then  you'll 
be  ashamed  you're  there!" 

For  a  moment  I  was  struck  dumb  with  surprise.  What 
was  this  strange  fire  deep  down  within  my  father's  soul 
that  could  give  out  such  a  flash?  Confusedly  I  won 
dered.  A  sudden  idea  crossed  my  mind. 

"But  if  that's  how  you  feel,"  I  retorted,  "why  are  you 
always  talking  about  the  battleships  we  need  ?  You  want 

a  big  navy " 

"Yes,"  he  snapped,  "to  keep  this  country  out  of  war! 
If  you  live  long  enough  you'll  see  what  I  mean — remem 
ber  then  what  I'm  telling  you !  This  country  needs  a 
navy  so  big  she  can  trade  wherever  she  likes  and  make 
other  nations  leave  her  alone !  But  she  doesn't  want  war ! 
Sixty  One  was  enough !  Some  day  when  you  get  a  man's 
eyes  in  your  head  you'll  see  what  that  did  to  this  har 
bor!" 

I  had  it  now,  the  cause  of  all  his  curious  wrath !  War 
had  hurt  his  harbor !  How  or  why  I  did  not  care.  Could 
this  harbor  of  his  stand  nothing  heroic?  Patriotism,  re- 


THE   HARBOR  43 

ligion,  love — irrast  they  all  be  shoved  aside  to  make  way 
for  his  dull  business? 

About  a  year  later  I  was  torn  for  months  between 
two  careers.  Should  I  become  a  great  musician  or  a 
famous  writer  ?  The  idea  of  writing  came  to  me  first, 
I  got  it  from  "Pendennis,"  and  for  a  time  it  took  hold  so 
hard  I  thought  I  was  nicely  settled  for  life.  But  then 
my  mother  read  aloud  "The  Lives  of  Great  Musicians," 
and  within  a  few  weeks  the  piano  lessons  which  for  years 
I  had  thought  so  dull  became  an  absorbing  passion.  My 
mother  bought  me  a  photograph  of  one  of  the  Beethoven 
portraits,  and  around  it  over  my  desk  I  tacked  up  pic 
tures  of  famous  pianists  that  I  -cut  from  magazines.  I 
went  to  concerts  in  New  York.  Better  still,  my  teacher 
secured  me  admittance  to  some  orchestra  rehearsals,  where 
like  a  real  professional,  all  mere  amateurs  shut  out,  I 
could  sit  in  the  dark  and  listen,  and  shut  my  eyes  and  hold 
my  head  between  my  hands.  I  was  composing !  After  a 
month  or  two  of  this  feverish  life  I  remember  the  pride 
with  which  I  wrote  "Opus  38"  over  my  last  composi 
tion.  My  rapidity  was  astounding! 

But  one  day  my  teacher,  a  kind  tactful  German,  told 
me  that  Beethoven,  when  he  was  composing,  had  not  al 
ways  shut  himself  up  in  a  room  and  scowled  with  both 
hands  to  his  head,  as  in  the  portrait  of  him  I  had,  but 
had  rather  gone  out  into  the  world. 

"The  Master  found  his  music,"  he  said,  "by  listening 
to  the  life  close  around  him." 

"He  did  ?"  I  became  uneasy  at  once,  for  again  I  felt 
myself  being  pushed  toward  that  eternal  harbor. 

"If  I  were  you,"  my  relentless  monitor  went  on,  "and 
desired  to  become  in  music  the  great  voice  of  my  coun 
try" — I  looked  at  him  quickly  but  saw  no  smile — "I 
should  watch  the  great  ships  down  there  below,  I  should 
listen  to  them  with  an  artist's  ears.  They  are  here  from 
all  over  the  world,  these  ships,  they  are  manned  by  men 


44  THE   HARBOR 

of  all  nations.  I  should  listen  to  the  songs  of  these  men. 
I  have  heard,"  he  added  reflectively,  "that  some  of  their 
songs  are  centuries  old.  Beethoven  gathered  only  the  folk 
songs  of  his  country.  But  you  in  your  city  of  all  nations 
might  gather  the  folk  songs  of  all  the  seas." 

I  turned  quickly.     I  had  been  walking  the  room. 

"I  have  heard  the  sailors  sing,"  I  said,  "ever  since  I 
was  a  little  kid  out  there  in  the  garden."  I  scowled  in 
the  effort  to  search  my  soul,  my  artist's  soul.  "Yes,"  I 
added  triumphantly,  "and  sometimes  it  brought  a  lump  in 
my  throat!" 

"Ah!     Now  you  are  a  musician!" 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  I  said. 

So  again  I  tackled  the  harbor.  By  day  it  was  quite 
impossible,  all  toots  and  blares,  the  most  frightful  dis 
cords — but  at  night  its  vulgar  loudness  was  toned  down 
sufficiently  so  that  a  fellow  with  artist's  ears  could  really 
stand  listening  to  its  life,  especially  if  I  did  not  go  too 
close  but  listened  from  my  window.  Here  with  uglier 
sounds  subdued  I  could  catch  low  voices,  snatches  of  song 
and  now  and  then  a  chorus.  "The  folk  songs  of  the  Seven 
Seas!"  How  that  phrase  took  hold  of  me! 

I  went  for  information  to  an  old  dock  watchman  who 
had  been  a  sailor. 

"Songs?  Why  sure!"  he  answered.  "It  must  be  the 
chanties  ye  mean." 

"Chanties?" 

"That's  it.     I've  been  told  the  word's  French." 

"Oh!  Chanter!" 

"No — chanty.  An'  the  man  that  sings  the  verses,  he's 
called  the  chantyman.  He  sings  while  the  crew  heaves 
on  the  ropes  an'  they  all  come  in  on  the  chorus.  If  he's 
a  real  good  chantyman  he  makes  up  new  verses  every 
time,  a  kind  of  a  yarn  he  spins  while  he  sings." 

Soon  after  this,  toward  the  end  of  a  warm,  windy  April 
night,  I  awoke  and  heard  them  singing.  I  jumped  up 
and  went  to  my  window.  From  the  dock  next  to  my 


THE    HARBOR  45 

father's,  over  the  line  of  warehouse  roofs,  I  could  see  the 
immense  white  sails  already  slowly  rising  into  the  starlit 
night.  Quickly  I  threw  on  some  clothes  and  hurried  down 
to  the  docks.  The  waterfront  was  empty,  swept  clean  of 
all  that  I  disliked.  Only  overhead  a  few  billowy  clouds, 
the  soft  rush  of  the  wind,  a  slight  flush  in  the  east,  it 
was  almost  dawn.  Here  and  there  gleamed  a  light,  red, 
green  or  yellow,  with  a  phantom  tug  or  barge  around  it, 
moving  over  the  black  of  the  water.  JSTot  silence  but  some 
thing  richer  was  here — the  confused  mysterious  murmur 
ing,  the  creaking  and  the  breathing  of  the  sleeping  port. 
And  out  of  this  those  voices  singing. 

I  drew  nearer  slowly.  Hungrily  I  tried  to  take  in  the 
details  of  color  and  sound.  And  I  felt  suddenly  such 
a  deep  delight  as  I  had  never  dreamed  of.  To  look  around 
and  listen  and  gather  it  into  me  and  remember.  This 
was  great,  no  doubt  about  it — it  fitted  into  all  that  was 
fine! 

"This  is  really  what  I  want  to  do — I'd  like  to  learn  to 
do  it  well— I'd  like  to  do  it  all  my  life !" 

Slower,  more  fearfully,  I  drew  near.  Would  anything 
happen  to  spoil  it  all  ?  There  she  lay,  the  long  white  ship, 
laden  deep,  settled  low  in  the  water.  I  could  see  the  lines 
of  little  dark  men  heaving  together  at  the  ropes.  Each 
time  they  hove  they  sang  the  refrain,  which,  no  doubt, 
was  centuries  old,  a  song  of  the  winds,  the  big  bullies 
of  the  ocean,  calling  to  each  other  as  in  some  wild  storm 
at  sea  they  buffeted  the  tiny  men  who  clung  to  the  masts 
and  spars  of  ships: 

"Blow  the  man  down,  bullies, 
Blow  him  right  down! 
Hey !  Hey !  Blow  the  man  down ! 
Give  us  the  time  to  blow  the  man  down!" 

But  what  were  the  verses?  I  could  hear  the  plain 
tive  tenor  voice  of  the  chantyman  who  sang  them — now 
low  and  almost  mournful,  now  passionate,  thrilling  up  into 


46  THE   HARBOR 

the  night,  as  though  yearning  for  all  that  was  hid  in  the 
heavens.  Could  a  man  like  that  feel  things  like  that? 
But  what  were  the  words  he  was  singing,  this  yarn  he 
was  spinning  in  his  song? 

I  came  around  by  the  foot  of  the  slip  and  walked  rap 
idly  up  the  dockshed  toward  one  of  its  wide  hatchways. 
The  singing  had  stopped,  but  as  I  drew  close  a  rough 
voice  broke  the  silence: 

"Sing  it  again,  Paddy !" 

I  looked  out.  Close  by  on  the  deck,  in  the  hard  blue 
glare  of  an  arc-light,  were  some  twenty  men,  dirty,  greasy, 
ragged,  sweating,  all  gripping  the  ropes  and  waiting  for 
Paddy,  who  rolled  his  quid  in  his  mouth,  spat  twice,  and 
then  began: 

"As  I  went  awalking  down  Paradise  Street 
A  pretty  young  maiden  I  chanced  for  to  meet." 

A  heave  on  the  ropes  and  a  deafening  roar: 

"Blow  the  man  down,  bullies, 
Blow  him  right  down ! 
Hey!    Hey!    Blow   the   man    down!" 

Again  the  solo  voice,  plaintiff  and  tender: 

"By  her  build  I  took  her  for  Dutch. 
She  was  square  in  the  stuns'l  and  bluff  in  the  bow." 

The  rest  was  a  detailed  account  of  the  night  spent  with 
the  maiden.  Roar  on  roar  rose  the  boisterous  chorus: 
"Blow  the  man  down,  bullies,  blow  him  right  down !"  The 
big  patched,  dirty  sails  went  jerking  and  flapping  up 
toward  the  stars,  which  from  here  were  so  faint  they  could 
barely  be  seen.  And  the  ship  moved  out  on  the  harbor. 

"There  go  the  folk  songs  of  the  seas,"  I  thought  dis 
gustedly,  looking  out  on  the  water  now  showing  itself 
grease-mottled  in  the  first  raw  light  of  day. 

I  tried  other  songs  with  my  artist's  ears  and  found 


THE   HARBOR  47 

them  all  much  like  the  first,  the  music  like  the  very- 
stars,  the  words  like  the  grease  and  scum  on  the  water.  I 
was  about  giving  up  my  search  when  I  met  my  old  friend, 
the  watchman. 

"Well,  did  ye  find  the  chanties  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "They  can't  be  printed."  His  old 
eyes  twinkled  merrily: 

"Of  course  they  can't.  An'  most  songs  an'  stories  can't. 
But  I'll  give  ye  a  nice  little  song  ye  can  print.  It's  the 
oldest  chanty  of  'em  all.  I'll  try  to  remember  an'  write 
it  down." 

Here  is  the  song  he  gave  me: 

ROLLING  HOME 

To  Australia's  fair-haired  maidens 
We  will  bid  our  last  good-bye. 
We  are  going  home  to  England, 
We  may  never  more  see  you. 

Rolling  home,  rolling  home, 
Rolling  home  across  the  sea, 
Rolling  home  to  merry  England, 
Rolling  home  dear  land  to  thee. 

We  will  leave  you  our  best  wishes 
As  we  leave  your  rocky  shores, 
We  are  going  home  to  England, 
We  may  never  see  you  more. 
Rolling  home 

Up  aloft  amidst  her  rigging 
Spreading  out  her  snow  white  sails, 
Like  a  bird  with  outstretched  pinions, 
On  we  speed  before  the  gale. 
Rolling  home 

And  the  wild  waves,  as  we  leave  them, 
Seem  to  murmur  as  they  roll; 
There  are  hands  and  hearts  to  greet  thee 
In  that  land  to  which  you  go. 
Rolling  home 


48  THE   HARBOR 

Cheer  up,  Jack,  fond  hearts  await  thee, 
And  kind  welcomes  everywhere; 
There  are  hands  and  hearts  to  greet  thee, 
Kind  caresses  from  the  fair. 

Rolling  home,  rolling  home, 
Rolling  home  across  the  sea, 
Rolling  home  to  merry  England, 
Rolling  home  dear  land  to  thee. 

"Do  they  ever  sing  those  words  ?"  I  asked  suspiciously. 
The  old  Irishman  looked  steadily  back. 

"Sure  they  sing  'em — sometimes,"  he  said.  "It's  the 
same  thing  as  them  other  songs — only  nicer  put.  Put  to 
be  printed,"  he  added.  • 

He  found  me  others  "put  to  be  printed."  Soon  I  had 
quite  a  collection.  And  with  the  help  of  my  German 
teacher  I  wrote  down  the  music. 

"There  are  not  enough  for  a  book,"  he  said.  "Why 
don't  you  write  an  article,  tell  where  you  found  them, 
put  them  in,  and  send  it  to  a  paper?  So  you  can  give 
them  to  the  world." 

This  I  at  once  set  out  to  do.  In  the  writing  I  found 
again  that  deep  delight  I  had  had  on  the  dock,  just  far 
enough  off  to  miss  the  dirt,  the  sweat  and  the  words  of 
the  song.  I  showed  the  article  to  my  mother,  and  she 
was  surprised  and  delighted.  Working  together,  in  less 
than  a  week  we  had  polished  it  off.  I  heard  her  read  it 
aloud  to  my  father,  I  watched  his  face,  and  I  saw  the 
grim  smile  that  came  over  it  as  he  asked  me, 

"Are  those  the  words  you  heard  them  sing?" 

"!N"ot  all  of  them  are,"  I  answered.  And  suddenly, 
somehow  or  other,  I  felt  guilty,  as  though  I  had  done 
something  wrong.  But  angrily  I  shook  it  off.  Why 
should  I  always  give  in  to  his  harbor?  This  that  I  had 
written  was  fine !  This  was  Art !  At  last  in  spite  of  him 
and  his  docks  I  had  found  something  great  that  I  could 
do! 


THE   HARBOR  49 

When  the  article  was  taken  by  a  Sunday  paper  in 
New  York  and  a  check  for  eight  dollars  was  sent  me  with 
a  brief  but  flattering  letter,  my  pride  and  hopes  rose 
high.  The  eight  dollars  I  spent  on  a  pin  for  my  mother, 
as  "Peniennis"  or  some  other  boy  genius  had  done.  When 
the  article  appeared  in  the  paper  my  mother  bought  fifty 
copies  and  gave  them  out  to  our  neighbors.  There  was 
nothing  to  shock  such  neighbors  here,  and  they  praised 
me  highly  for  what  they  called  my  "real  descriptive 
power." 

"That  boy  will  go  far,"  I  heard  one  cultured  old  gen 
tleman  say.  And  I  lost  no  time  in  starting  out.  No  mu 
sical  career  for  me,  down  came  Beethoven  from  my  wall, 
for  I  was  now  a  writer.  And  not  of  mere  articles,  either. 
Inside  of  six  months  I  had  written  a  dozen  short  stories, 
and  when  each  of  these  in  turn  was  rejected  I  began  to 
plan  out  a  five-act  play.  But  here  my  mother  stopped  me. 

"You're  trying  to  go  too  fast,"  she  said.  "Think  of  it, 
you  are  barely  nineteen.  You  must  give  up  everything 
else  just  now  and  spend  all  your  time  getting  ready  for 
college.  For  if  you  are  going  to  be  a  strong  writer,  as 
I  hope,  you  need  to  learn  so  many  things  first.  And  you 
will  find  them  all  in  college — as  I  did  once  when  I  was 
young,"  she  added  a  little  wistfully. 


CHAPTEK   VI 

THE  first  thing  I  needed  in  college  was  a  good  thor 
ough  dressing  down.  And  this  I  got  without  any  delay. 
In  the  first  few  weeks  my  artist's  ears  and  eyes  and  soul 
were  hazed  to  a  frazzle.  From  "that  boy  who  will  go 
far"  I  became  "you  damn  young  freshman."  I  was  told 
to  make  love  to  a  horse's  hind  leg,  I  was  made  to  perch  on 
a  gatepost  and  read  the  tenderest  passages  of  "Romeo  and 
Juliet,"  replacing  Romeo's  name  by  my  own,  and  Juliet's 
by  that  of  stout  Mrs.  Doogan,  who  scrubbed  floors  in  a 
dormitory  close  by.  Refusals  only  made  matters  painful. 
Besides,  I  was  told  by  a  freshman  friend  that  I'd  better 
fit  in  or  I'd  "queer"  myself. 

This  dread  of  "queering"  myself  at  first  did  me  a  world 
of  good.  Dumped  in  this  community  of  over  a  thousand 
callow  youths,  three  hundred  in  my  class  alone  and  each 
one  absorbed  in  getting  acquainted,  fitting  in,  making 
friends  and  a  place  for  himself,  I  was  soon  struggling  for 
a  foothold  as  hard  as  the  rest.  Within  a  month  the  thing  I 
wanted  above  all  else  was  to  shed  my  genius  and  become  "a 
good  mixer"  in  the  crowd. 

This  drew  me  at  first  from  books  to  athletics.  Though 
still  slight  of  build  I  was  wiry,  high-strung  and  quick  of 
movement.  I  had  a  snub  nose  and  sandy  hair,  and  I  was 
tough,  with  a  hard-set  jaw.  And  I  now  went  into  the 
football  world  with  a  passion  and  a  patience  that  landed 
me  at  the  end  of  the  season — one  of  the  substitute  quarter 
backs  on  the  freshman  team.  I  did  not  get  into  a  single 
game,  I  was  only  used  on  the  "scrub"  in  our  practice. 
This  made  for  a  wholesome  humility  and  a  real  love  of  my 
college. 

60 


THE    HARBOR  51 

The  football  season  over,  I  tried  for  the  daily  paper. 
One  of  the  freshman  candidates  for  the  editorial  Spring 
elections,  I  became  a  daily  reporter  slave.  Here  at  first 
I  drew  on  my  "queer"  past,  turning  all  my  "descriptive 
powers"  to  use.  But  a  fat  senior  editor  called  "Pop"  in 
quired  one  day  with  a  sneer,  "For  God's  sake,  Freshman, 
why  these  flowers?"  And  the  flowers  forthwith  dropped 
out  of  my  style.  At  all  hours,  day  and  night,  to  the  al 
most  entire  neglect  of  studies,  I  went  about  college  dig 
ging  up  news — not  the  trivial  news  of  the  faculty's  dull, 
puny  plans  for  the  development  of  our  minds,  but  the  real 
vital  news  of  our  college  life,  news  of  the  things  we  were 
here  for,  the  things  by  which  a  man  got  on,  news  of  all 
the  athletic  teams,  of  the  glee,  mandolin  and  banjo  clubs, 
of  "proms,"  of  class  and  fraternity  elections,  mass  meet 
ings  and  parades.  Ferreting  my  way  into  all  nooks  and 
crannies  of  college  life,  ears  keen  for  hints  and  rumors, 
alert  to  "scoop"  my  eighteen  reporter  rivals — the  more  I 
learned  the  better  I  loved.  And  when  in  the  Spring  I  was 
one  of  the  five  freshman  editors  chosen,  the  conquest  was 
complete.  No  more  artist's  soul  for  me.  I  was  part  and 
parcel  of  college  life. 

Together  with  my  companions  I  assumed  a  genial  tol 
erance  toward  all  those  poor  dry  devils  known  to  us  as 
"profs."  I  remember  the  weary  sighs  of  our  old  college 
president  as  he  monotoned  through  his  lectures  on  ethics 
to  the  tune  of  the  cracking  of  peanuts,  which  an  old  darky 
sold  to  us  at  the  entrance  to  the  hall.  It  was  a  case  of 
live  and  let  live.  He  let  us  eat  and  we  let  him  talk.  With 
the  physics  prof,  who  was  known  as  "Madge  the  Scien 
tist,"  our  indulgence  went  still  further.  We  took  no  dis 
turbing  peanuts  there  and  we  let  him  drone  his  hour  away 
without  an  interruption,  except  perhaps  an  occasional 
snore.  We  were  so  good  to  him,  I  think,  because  of  his 
sense  of  humor.  He  used  to  stop  talking  now  and  then 
and  with  a  quizzical  hopeless  smile  he  would  look  about 
the  hall.  And  we  would  all  smile  broadly  back,  enjoying 


52  THE    HARBOR 

to  the  full  with  him  the  droll  farce  of  our  presence  there. 
"Go  to  it,  Madge,"  someone  would  murmur.  And  the 
work  of  revealing  the  wonders  of  this  material  universe 
would  limp  quietly  along.  In  examinations  Madge  gave 
no  marks,  at  least  not  to  the  mass  of  us.  If  he  had,  over 
half  of  us  would  have  been  dropped,  so  he  "flunked"  the 
worst  twenty  and  let  the  rest  through. 

The  faculty,  as  a  whole,  appeared  to  me  no  less  fa 
tigued.  Most  of  them  lectured  as  though  getting  tired, 
the  others  as  though  tired  out.  There  were  a  few  lonely 
exceptions  but  they  had  to  fight  against  heavy  odds. 

The  hottest  fighter  of  all  against  this  classic  torpor  was 
a  tall,  joyous  Frenchman  who  gestured  not  only  with  his 
hands  but  with  his  eloquent  knees  as  well.  His  subject 
was  French  literature,  but  from  this  at  a  moment's  notice 
he  would  dart  off  into  every  phase  of  French  life.  There 
was  nothing  in  life,  according  to  him,  that  was  not  a  part 
of  literature.  In  college  he  was  considered  quite  mad. 

I  met  him  not  long  ago  in  New  York.  We  were  both 
hanging  to  straps  in  the  subway  and  we  had  but  a  moment 
before  he  got  off. 

"I  have  read  you,"  he  said,  "in  the  magazines.  And 
from  what  you  write  I  think  you  can  tell  me.  What  was 
the  trouble  with  me  at  college  ?"  I  looked  into  his  black 
twinkling  eyes. 

"Great  Scott !"  I  said  suddenly.     "You  were  alive !" 

"Merci!     Au  revoir,  monsieur!" 

What  a  desert  of  knowledge  it  was  back  there.  Our 
(  placid  tolerance  of  the  profs  included  the  books  they  gave 
'  us.  The  history  prof  gave  us  ten  books  of  collateral  read 
ing.  Each  book,  if  we  could  pledge  our  honor  as  gentle 
men  that  we  had  read  it,  counted  us  five  in  examination. 
On  the  night  before  the  examination  I  happened  to  enter 
the  room  of  one  of  our  football  giants,  and  found  him 
surrounded  by  five  freshmen,  all  of  whom  were  reading 
aloud.  One  was  reading  a  book  on  Russia,  another  the 
life  of  Frederick  the  Great,  a  third  was  patiently  droning 


THE   HARBOR  5? 

*i 

forth.  Napoleon's  war  on  Europe,  while  over  on  the 
window-seat  the  other  two  were  racing  through  volumes 
one  and  two  of  Carlyle's  French.  Revolution.  The  room 
was  a  perfect  babel  of  sound.  But  the  big  man  sat  and 
smoked  his  pipe,  his  honor  safe  and  the  morrow  secure. 
In  later  years,  whatever  might  happen  across  the  sea 
would  find  this  fellow  fully  prepared,  a  wise,  intelligent 
judge  of  the  \vorld,  with  a  college  education. 

"This  reminds  me/'  he  said,  aof  last  summer — when  I 
did  Europe  in  three  weeks  with  Dad." 

The  main  idea  in  all  courses  was  to  do  what  you  had 
to  but  no  more.  One  day  an  English  prof  called  upon 
me  to  define  the  difference  between  a  novel  and  a  book  of 
science. 

"About  the  same  difference,"  I  replied,  "as  between 
an  artist's  painting  and  a  mathematical  drawing." 

"Bootlick,  bootlick,"  I  heard  in  murmurs  all  over  the 
hall.  I  had  answered  better  than  I  had  to.  Hence  I  had 
licked  the  professor's  boots.  I  did  not  offend  in  this  way 
again. 

But  early  in  my  sophomore  year,  when  the  novelty  had 
worn  away,  I  began  to  do  some  thinking.  Was  there 
nothing  else  here?  My  mother  and  I  had  had  talks  at 
home,  and  she  had  told  me  plainly  that  unless  I  sent  home 
better  reports  I  could  not  finish  my  four  years'  course. 
And  after  all,  she  wasn't  a  fool,  there  was  something 
in  that  idea  of  hers — that  here  in  this  quiet  old  town,  so 
)  remote  from  the  harbor  and  business,  a  fellow  ought  to 
be  getting  "fine"  things,  things  that  would  help  him  all 
his  life. 

"But  look  what  I've  got!"  I  told  myself.  "When  I 
came  here  what  was  I  ?  A  little  damn  prig !  And  look 
at  me  now!" 

"All  right,  look  ahead.  I'm  toughened  up,  I've  had 
some  good  things  knocked  into  me  and  a  lot  of  fool  things 
knocked  out  of  me.  But  that's  just  it.  Are  all  the  fine 


64  THE    HARBOR 

things  fool  things?  Don't  I  still  want  to  write?  Sure 
I  do.  Well,  what  am  I  going  to  write  about?  What  do 
I  know  of  the  big  things  of  life  ?  I  was  always  hunting 
for  what  was  great.  I'm  never  hunting  for  it  now,  and 
unless  I  get  something  mighty  quick  my  father  will  make 
me  go  into  his  business.  What  am  I  going  to  do  with 
my  life?" 

At  first  I  honestly  tried  to  "pole,"  to  find  whether,  after 
all,  I  couldn't  break  through  the  hard  dry  crust  of  books 
and  lectures  down  into  what  I  called  "the  real  stuff."  But 
the  deeper  I  dug  the  drier  it  grew.  Vaguely  I  felt  that 
here  was  crust  and  only  crust,  and  that  for  some  reason 
or  other  it  was  meant  that  this  should  be  so,  because  in 
the  fresh  bubbling  springs  and  the  deep  blazing  fires 
whose  presence  I  could  feel  below  there  was  something 
irritating  to  profs  and  disturbing  to  those  who  paid  them. 
These  profs,  I  thought  confusedly,  had  about  as  much  to 
do  with  life  as  had  that  little  "hero  of  God"  who  had  cut 
such  a  pitiful  figure  when  he  came  close  to  the  harbor. 
And  more  pitiful  still  were  the  "polers,"  the  chaps  who 
were  working  for  high  marks.  They  thought  of  marks 
and  little  else.  They  thrived  on  crust,  these  fellows,  cram.' 
ming  themselves  with  words  and  rules,  with  facts,  dates, 
theorems  and  figures,  in  order  to  become  professors  them 
selves  and  teach  the  same  stuff  to  other  "polers."  There 
was  a  story  of  one  of  them  who  stayed  in  his  room  and 
crammed  all  through  the  big  football  game  of  the  sea 
son,  and  at  night  when  told  we  had  won  remarked  blithely, 

"Oh,  that's  splendid!  I  think  I'll  go  out  and  have  a 
pretzel !" 

God,  what  a  life,  I  thought  to  myself!  IlsTone  of  that 
for  me !  And  so  I  left  the  "polers." 

But  now  in  my  restless  groping  around  for  realities  in 
life  that  would  thrill  me,  things  that  I  could  write  about, 
I  began  trying  to  test  things  out  by  talking  about  them 
with  my  friends.  What  did  a  fellow  want  most  in  life 
— what  to  do,  what  to  get  and  to  be?  What  was  there 


THE   HARBOR  55 

really  in  business  beside  the  making  of  money  ?  In  medi 
cine,  law  and  the  other  professions,  in  art,  in  getting 
married,  in  this  idea  of  God  and  a  heaven,  or  in  the  idea 
I  vaguely  felt  now  filtering  through  the  nation,  that  a  man 
owed  his  life  to  his  country  in  time  of  peace  as  in  time  of 
war.  The  harbor  with  rough  heavy  jolts  had  long  ago 
started  me  thinking  about  questions  of  this  kind.  Now 
I  tackled  them  again  and  tried  to  talk  about  them. 

And  at  once  I  found  I  was  "queering"  myself.  For 
these  genial  companions  of  mine  had  laid  a  most  decided 
taboo  upon  all  topics  of  this  kind.  They  did  so  because 
to  discuss  them  meant  to  openly  think  and  feel,  and  to 
think  or  feel  intensely,  about  anything  but  athletics  and 
other  things  prescribed  by  the  crowd,  was  bad  form  to 
say  the  least. 

Bad  form  to  talk  in  any  such  fashion  of  what  we  were 
going  to  make  of  our  lives.  Nobody  cared  to  warm  up  on 
the  subject.  Many  had  nothing  at  all  in  sight  and  put  off 
the  whole  idea  as  a  bore.  Others  were  already  fixed,  they 
had  positions  waiting  in  law  and  business  offices,  in  fac 
tories,  mines,  mills  and  banks,  and  they  took  these  posi 
tions  as  settled  and  sure. 

"Why?"  I  would  argue  impatiently.  "How  do  you 
know  it's  what  you  want  most  ?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  it'll  do  as  well  as  another." 

"But  damn  it  all,  why  not  have  a  look  ?  We  can  have 
a  big  look  now,  we've  got  a  chance  to  broaden  out  before 
we  jump  into  our  little  jobs — to  see  all  the  jobs  and  size 
'em  up  and  look  at  'em  as  a  part  of  the  world !" 

"Oh,  biff."  I  got  little  or  no  response.  The  greater 
part  of  these  decent  likable  fellows  could  not  warm  up 
to  anything  big,  they  simply  hadn't  it  in  them.  -J 

"Why  in  hell  do  you  want  me  to  get  all  hot  ?"  drawled 
one  fat  sluggard  of  a  friend.  "I'll  keep  alive  when  the 
time  comes."  And  he  and  his  kind  set  the  standard  for 
all.  Sometimes  a  chap  who  could  warm  up,  who  had  the 
real  stuff  in  him,  would  "loosen  up"  about  his  life  on 


3  THE   HARBOR 

some  long  tramp  with  me  alone.  But  back  in  college  his 
lips  were  sealed.  It  was  not  exactly  that  he  was  ashamed, 
it  was  simply  that  with  his  college  friends  such  talk 
seemed  utterly  out  of  place. 

"Look  out,  Bill,"  said  one  affectionately.  "You'll  queer 
yourself  if  you  keep  on." 

The  same  held  true  of  religion.  An  upper  classman, 
if  he  felt  he  had  to,  might  safely  become  a  leader  of  fresh 
men  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  But  when  one  Sunday  evening 
I  disturbed  a  peaceful  pipe-smoking  crowd  by  wondering 
why  it  was  that  we  were  all  so  bored  in  chapel,  there  fell 
an  embarrassing  silence — until  someone  growled  good- 
humoredly,  "Don't  bite  off  more'n  you  can  chew."  Nobody 
wanted  to  drop  his  religion,  he  simply  wanted  to  let  it 
alone.  I  remember  one  Sunday  in  chapel,  in  the  midst 
of  a  long  sermon,  how  our  sarcastic  old  president  woke 
us  up  with  a  start. 

"I  was  asked,"  he  said,  "if  we  had  any  free  thinkers 
here.  'No/  I  replied.  'We  have  not  yet  advanced  that 
far.  For  it  takes  half  as  much  thinking  to  be  a  free 
thinker  as  it  does  to  believe  in  God.' ' 

And  I  remember  the  night  in  our  sophomore  club  when 
the  news  came  like  a  thunderclap  that  one  of  our  mem 
bers  had  been  killed  pole-vaulting  at  a  track  meet  in  New 
York.  It  was  our  habit,  in  our  new-found  manliness,  to 
eat  with  our  hats  on,  shout  and  sing,  and  speak  of  our 
food  as  "tapeworm,"  "hemorrhage,"  and  the  like.  I  re 
member  how  we  sat  that  night,  silent,  not  a  word  from 
the  crowd — one  starting  to  eat,  then  seeing  it  wasn't  the 
thing  to  do,  and  staring  blankly  like  the  rest.  They  were 
terrible,  those  stares  into  reality.  That  clutching  pain  of 
grief  was  real,  so  real  it  blotted  everything  out.  Later 
some  of  us  in  my  room  began  to  talk  in  low  voices  of  what 
a  good  fellow  he  had  been.  Then  some  chap  from  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  proposed  timidly  to  lead  us  in  prayer.  What 
a  glare  he  got  from  all  over  the  room!  "Damn  fool,"  I 
heard  someone  mutter.  Bad  form ! 


THE   HARBOR  57 

Politics  also  wera  tabooed.  Here  again  there  were  ex-  ~ 
ceptions.  A  still  fiery  son  of  the  South  could  rail  about 
niggers,  rapes  and  lynchings  and  the  need  for  disenfran 
chising  the  blacks.  It  was  good  fun  to  hear  him.  More 
over,  a  fellow  who  was  a  good  speaker,  and  needed  the 
money,  might  stump  the  state  for  either  political  party, 
and  his  accounts  were  often  amusing.  But  to  sit  down  and 
talk  about  the  trusts,  graft,  trade  unions,  strikes,  or  the 
tariff  or  the  navy,  the  Philippines,  "the  open  door,"  or 
any  other  of  the  big  questions  that  even  then,  ten  years 
ago,  were  beginning  to  shake  the  country,  and  that  we 
would  all  be  voting  on  soon  ?  No.  The  little  Bryan  club 
was  a  joke.  And  one  day  when  a  socialist  speaker  struck 
town  the  whole  college  turned  out  in  parade,  waving  red 
sweaters  and  firing  "bombs"  and  roaring  a  wordless  Mar 
seillaise  !  We  wanted  no  solemn  problems  here ! 

Finally,  it  was  distinctly  bad  form  to  talk  about  sex. 
Not  to  tell  "smutty  stories,"  they  were  welcomed  by  the 
average  crowd.  But  to  look  at  it  squarely,  as  I  tried  to 
do,  and  get  some  light  upon  what  would  be  doubtless  the 
most  vital  part  of  our  future  lives — this  simply  wasn't 
done.  What  did  women  mean  to  us,  I  asked.  What  did 
prostitutes  mean  at  present?  What  would  wives  mean 
later  on?  And  all  this  talk  about  mistresses  and  this 
business  of  free  love,  and  easy  divorces  and  marriage  itself 
• — what  did  they  all  amount  to  ?  Was  love  really  what  it 
was  cracked  up  to  be,  or  had  the  novelists  handed  us  guff  ? 
When  I  came  out  with  questions  like  these,  the  chaps 
called  "clean"  looked  rather  pained ;  the  ones  who  weren't, 
distinctly  bored. 

For  this  whole  intricate  subject  was  kept  in  the  cellars 
of  our  minds,  cellars  often  large  but  dark.  Because  "sex"  : 
was  wholly  rotten.  It  had  nothing  to  do,  apparently,  with 
the  girls  who  came  chaperoned  to  the  "proms,"  it  had  to 
do  only  with  certain  women  in  a  little  town  close  by. 
Plenty  of  chaps  went  there  at  times,  and  now  and  then 
women  from  over  there  would  come  to  us  on  the  quiet  at 


.68  THE   HARBOR 

night.  But  one  afternoon  I  saw  a  big  crowd  on  the  front 
campus.  It  grew  every  moment,  became  a  mob,  shoving 
and  surging,  shouting  and  jeering.  I  climbed  some  steps 
to  look  into  the  center,  and  saw  two  painted  terrified  girls, 
hysterical,  sobbing,  swearing  and  shrieking.  So  they 
were  shoved,  a  hidden  spectacle,  to  the  station  and  put 
on  the  train.  Nothing  like  that  on  our  front  campus ! 
Nothing  like  "sex"  in  the  front  rooms  of  our  minds.  The 
crowd  returned  chuckling.  Immoral  ?  Hell,  no.  Simply 
bad  form. 

•  ••••• 

"What  am  I  going  to  write  about?" 
"Games,"  said  the  college.     "Only  games.     Don't  go 
adventuring  down  into  life." 


CHAPTEE   VII 

V 

..* 

THEN  I  found  Joe  Kramer. 

He  had  "queered"  himself  at  the  beginning  in  college. 
I  had  barely  known  him.  He  belonged  to  no  fraternity, 
and  except  on  the  athletic  field  he  kept  out  of  all  our 
genial  life.  And  this  life  of  ours,  for  all  its  thoughtless 
ness,  was  so  rich  in  genuine  friendships,  so  filled  and  bub 
bling  over  with  the  joy  of  being  young,  that  we  could  not 
understand  how  any  decent  sort  of  chap  could  deliber 
ately  keep  out  of  it.  We  put  Joe  Kramer  down  as  a 
"grouch." 

But  now  that  I  too  was  "queering"  myself,  our  queer- 
ness  drew  us  together,  or  rather,  Joe's  drew  mine.  In 
the  ten  years  that  have  gone  since  then  I  have  never  met 
any  man  who  drew  me  harder  than  he  did,  than  he  is 
drawing  me  even  still — and  this  often  in  spite  of  my  ef 
forts  to  shake  him  off,  and  later  of  his  quite  evident  wish 
to  be  rid  of  me.  For  Joe  had  what  is  so  hard  to  find 
among  us  comfortable  mortals,  a  sincerity  so  real  and  deep 
that  it  absolutely  ruled  his  life,  that  it  kept  him  ex 
ploring  into  things,  kept  him  adventuring  always. 

In  long  tramps  over  the  neighboring  hills,  on  our  backs 
in  the  grass  staring  up  at  the  clouds,  or  in  winter  hug 
ging  a  bonfire  in  the  shelter  of  a  boulder,  or  back  in  college 
over  our  beer  or  over  countless  pipes  in  our  rooms,  to 
gether  we  adventured  through  books  and  long  hungry 
talks  down  into  life — and  of  the  paths  we  discovered  I 
see  even  now  no  end. 

Joe  was  tall  and  lean,  with  heavy  shoulders  stooping 
slightly.  He  was  sallow,  he  never  took  care  of  himself. 

59 


60 

He  ate  his  meals  at  all  hours  at  a  small  cheap  restaurant, 
where  he  bought  a  bunch  of  meal  tickets  each  week.  His 
face  was  obstinate,  honest,  kindly,  his  features  were  as 
blunt  as  his  talk.  He  was  the  first  to  understand  what  I 
was  so  vaguely  looking  for,  and  to  say,  "All  right,  Kid, 
you  come  right  along."  And  as  he  was  farther  along 
than  I,  he  pulled  me  after  him  on  the  hunt  after  what  he 
called  "the  genuine  article"  in  this  bewildering  modern 
life. 

His  own  life,  to  begin  with,  was  a  tie  with  this  real 
modern  world  that  had  forced  itself  on  me  long  ago 
through  the  harbor.  For  Joe  had  been  "up  against  it" 
hard.  Though  blunt  and  frank  about  most  things  he 
talked  little  about  himself,  but  I  got  his  story  bit  by  bit. 
"Graft"  had  come  into  it  at  the  start.  In  a  town  of  the 
Middle  West  his  father  had  been  a  physician  with  a  good 
practice,  until  when  Joe  was  eleven  years  old  a  case  of 
smallpox  was  discovered.  Joe's  father  vaccinated  about 
a  score  of  children  that  week.  The  "dope"  he  used  was 
mailed  to  him  by  a  drug  firm  in  Chicago.  It  was  "rot 
ten."  Over  half  the  children  were  desperately  ill  and 
seven  of  them  died.  Joe's  father,  his  mother  and  both 
older  sisters  did  duty  as  nurses  day  and  night.  After 
that  they  left  town,  moved  from  town  to  town,  that  story 
always  following,  and  finally  both  parents  died.  Since 
then  Joe  had  been  a  teamster,  a  clerk  in  a  hardware  store, 
a  brakeman,  a  telegrapher,  and  last,  the  assistant  editor 
of  a  paper  in  a  small  town.  He  had  scraped  and  slaved 
and  studied  throughout  with  the  idea  of  coming  East  to 
college.  He  had  come  at  twenty-two,  beating  his  way 
on  freight  trains.  On  the  top  of  a  car  one  night  he  had 
fallen  asleep  and  been  knocked  on  the  head  by  a  steel 
beam  jutting  down  under  a  bridge.  Then,  after  two  weeks 
on  a  hospital  bed,  he  had  arrived  at  college. 

Here  he  had  earned  a  meager  way  by  writing  football 
and  baseball  news  for  a  string  of  western  papers.  Here 
he  had  looked  for  an  education,  and  here  "a  bunch  of 


THE    HARBOR  61 

dead  ones"  had  handed  him  "news  from  the  graveyard" 
instead. 

I  can  still  see  him  in  classroom,  head  cocked  to  ono 
side,  grimly  watching  the  prof.  And  once  during  a  Bible 
course  lecture  I  heard  his  voice  blandly  ironic  behind  me : 

"Will  somebody  ask  Mister  Charley  Darwin  to  be  so 
good  as  to  step  this  way?" 

"We've  been  cheated,  Bill,"  he  told  me.  "We've  been 
cheated  right  along.  Take  history,  for  instance,  the  kind 
of  stuff  we  were  handed  in  school.  I  got  onto  it  first  when 
I  was  fourteen.  It  was  a  rainy  Saturday  and  my  mother 
told  me  to  go  and  clean  out  an  old  closet  up  in  the  attic. 
Well,  I  found  my  German  grandfather's  diary  there, 
written  when  he  was  in  college  in  Leipsic,  in  1848.  The 
way  those  kids  jumped  into  things!  The  way  they  got 
themselves  mixed  up  in  the  Revolution  of  Forty  Eight! 
To  hear  my  young  grandfather  talk,  that  year  was  one  of 
the  biggest  times  in  European  history.  Our  school  his 
tory  gave  it  five  pages  and  then  druled  on  about  courts  and 
kings.  'I'll  go  to  college,'  I  made  up  my  mind.  'College 
will  put  me  next  to  the  truth.'  So  I  saved  my  little 
nickels  and  came.  But  college,"  he  added  moodily,  "ain't 
advanced  as  far  as  it  was  in  my  young  grandfather's 
time." 

"Do  you  know  who's  to  blame  for  this  stuff  ?"  he  said. 
"It's  not  the  profs,  I've  nothing  against  them,  all  they 
need  is  to  be  kicked  out.  No,  it's  us,  because  we  stand 
for  their  line  of  drule.  If  we  got  right  up  on  our  honkeys 
and  howled,  all  of  us,  for  a  real  education,  we'd  get  it 
by  next  Saturday  night.  But  we  don't  care  a  damn.  Why 
don't  we?  Are  we  all  of  us  dubs?  ISTo  we're  not.  Go 
down  to  the  football  field  and  see.  There's  as  much  brains 
in  figuring  out  those  plays  as  there  is  in  mathematics. 
Would  we  stand  for  coaches  like  our  profs?  But  that's 
just  it.  It's  the  thing  to  be  alive  in  athletics  and  a  dub 
in  everything  else.  And  because  it's  the  thing,  every  fel 
low  fits  in.  On  the  whole,"  he  added  reflectively,  "I  think 


62  THE    HARBOR 

it's  this  'dear  old  college'  feeling  that's  to  blame  for  it 
all." 

"My  God,  Joe!"     This  was  high  treason! 

"Sure  it  is,"  he  retorted.  "It  is  your  god  and  the  god 
of  us  all.  This  dear  old  college  feeling.  It's  got  us  all 
stuck  together  so  close  that  nobody  dares  to  be  himself 
and  buck  against  its  standards." 

This  from  Joe  Kramer !  How  often,  in  a  football  game, 
have  I  seen  him  on  the  reporter's  bench,  his  sallow  face 
now  all  a-scowl,  now  beaming  satisfaction  as  he  pounded 
his  neighbor  on  the  back. 

In  pursuit  of  "a  real  education"  we  got  into  the  habit 
of  spending  almost  every  evening  in  the  college  library, 
where  except  at  examination  times  there  was  nobody  but 
a  few  silent  "polers." 

I  grew  to  love  this  place.  It  was  so  huge  and  shadowy, 
with  only  shaded  lights  here  and  there.  It  had  such  tempt 
ing  crannies.  I  loved  its  deep  quiet,  so  pleasantly  broken 
now  and  then  by  a  step,  a  whisper,  the  sound  of  a  book 
being  moved  from  its  shelf  where  perhaps  it  had  stood 
unread  for  years,  or  occasional  voices  passing  outside  or 
snatches  of  song  from  the  campus.  And  here  I  thought  I 
was  finding  myself.  That  French  prof,  had  introduced 
me  to  Voltaire,  Hugo,  Balzac,  Maupassant  and  others 
who  were  becoming  my  new  idols.  This  was  art,  this  was 
beauty  and  truth,  this  was  getting  at  life  in  a  way  that 
thrilled. 

But  now  and  then  looking  up  from  my  book  I  would 
see  Joe  prowling  about  the  place,  taking  down  a  book, 
then  shoving  it  back  and  scowling  as  he  ran  his  eyes  along 
whole  rows  of  titles. 

"This  darned  library  shut  its  doors,"  he  would  growl  to 
himself,  "just  as  the  real  dope  was  coming  along.  But 
there's  been  such  a  flood  of  it  ever  since  that  some  leaked 
in  in  spite  of  'em." 

Joe  would  search  and  search  until  he  found  "it"  on 
back  shelves  or  stuck  away  in  corners.  Angrily  he  would 


THE   HARBOR  63 

blow  off  the  dust  and  then  settle  himself  with  a  sigh  to 
read.  There  was  always  something  wistful  to  me  in  the 
way  Joe  opened  each  new  book.  But  what  a  joy  when  he 
found  "it" — Darwin,  Nietzsche,  Henry  George,  Walt 
Whitman,  Zola,  Samuel  Butler.  What  a  sudden  sort  of 
glee  the  night  he  discovered  Bernard  Shaw! 

When  the  library  closed  we  adjourned  for  beer  and  a 
smoke,  and  often  we  would  argue  long  about  what  we 
had  been  reading.  Joe  had  little  use  for  the  stuff  I  liked. 
Beauty  and  form  were  nothing  to  him,  it  was  "the  meat" 
he  was  after.  My  mother's  idols  he  laid  low. 

"The  first  part  was  big,"  he  said  one  night  of  a  recent 
English  novel.  "But  the  last  part  was  the  kind  of  thing 
that  poor  old  Thackeray  might  have  done." 

In  an  instant  I  was  up  in  arms,  for  to  my  mother  and 
me  the  author  of  "Pendennis"  had  been  like  a  great  lov 
able  patron  saint,  a  refuge  from  all  we  abhorred  in  the 
harbor.  To  slight  him  was  a  sacrilege.  But  reverence 
to  Joe  Kramer  was  a  thing  unknown.  "Show  me,"  he 
said,  in  reply  to  my  outburst,  "a  single  thing  he  ever 
wrote  that  wasn't  sentimental  bosh!"  And  we  went  at 
it  hammer  and  tongs. 

It  was  so  in  all  our  talks.  Nothing  was  too  sacred. 
Joe  always  insisted  on  "being  shown." 

He  had  a  keen  liking  but  little  respect  for  the  nation 
built  by  our  fathers.  From  his  own  father's  tragedy, 
caused  by  graft,  his  own  hard  struggles  in  the  West  and 
the  Populist  doctrines  he  had  imbibed,  he  had  come  East 
with  a  deep  conviction  that  "things  in  this  country  are 
one  big  mess  with  the  Constitution  sitting  on  top."  And 
when  the  term  "muckraker"  came  into  use,  I  remem 
ber  his  deep  satisfaction.  "Now  I  know  my  name,"  he 
said. 

He  was  equally  hard  on  the  church.  How  he  kicked 
against  our  compulsory  chapel.  "Broad,  isn't  it,  scien 
tific,"  he  growled,  "to  yank  a  man  out  of  bed  every  morn 
ing,  throw  him  into  his  seat  in  chapel  and  tell  him,  'Here. 


64  THE   HARBOR 

This  is  what  you  believe.  Be  good  now,  take  your  little 
dose  and  then  you  can  go  to  breakfast.' ' 

"I'm  no  atheist,"  he  remarked.  "I'm  only  a  poor  young 
fellah  who  asks,  'Say,  Mister,  if  you  are  up  there  why 
is  it  that  no  big  scientist  has  brains  enough  to  see  you  2' ' 

"Look  here,  J.  K.,  that  isn't  so!" 

"Isn't  it?  Show  me!"  And  we  would  start  in.  I  had 
a  deep  repugnance  for  his  whole  materialistic  view.  But 
I  liked  the  way  he  jarred  me. 

"What  I  want  to  do,"  he  said,  "is  to  bust  every  hold 
that  any  creed  ever  had  on  me.  I  don't  mean  only  creeds 
in  churches,  I  mean  creeds  in  politics,  business  and  every 
where  else.  I  want  to  get  'em  all  out  of  my  eyes  so  I 
can  see  what's  really  here — because  I'm  so  sure  there's  an 
awful  lot  here  and  an  awful  lot  more  that's  coming.  If 
I  make  a  noise  like  a  knocker  at  times  you  don't  want  to 
put  me  down  as  any  Schopenhauer  fan.  None  of  that 
pessimistic  dope  for  little  Joey  Kramer.  I  never  open 
a  new  book  without  hoping  I'll  find  the  real  stuff  I  want, 
and  I  never  open  a  paper  without  hoping  that  some  more 
of  it  will  be  right  here  in  the  news  of  the  day.  Kid,"  he 
ended  intensely,  "you  can  take  it  from  me  there  are  go 
ing  to  be  big  doings  soon  in  this  little  old  world,  big  doings 
and  great  big  ideas,  as  big  as  what  caused  the  Civil  War 
and  a  damn  sight  more  scientific.  And  the  thing  for  you 
and  me  to  do  is  to  get  ourselves  in  some  kind  of  shape 
so  we  can  shake  hands  with  'em  when  they  arrive,  and 
say,  'Hello,  fellahs,  come  right  in.  You're  just  what 
we've  been  waiting  for.' ' 

When  Joe  gave  up  college  at  the  end  of  the  junior 
year,  he  left  a  small  group  of  us  behind.  "The  Ishmae- 
lites,"  we  called  ourselves.  For  though  most  of  us 
"couldn't  quite  go  Joe,"  we  had  all  "queered"  ourselves 
in  college  through  the  influence  on  us  he  had  had. 

There  are  thousands  of  Joe  Kramers  now  in  colleges 
scattered  all  over  the  land.  Each  year  their  numbers 
grow,  each  year  more  deep  their  vague  conviction  that 


THE   HARBOR  65 

somehow  they've  been  cheated,  more  harsh  and  insistent 
every  year  their  questioning  of  all  "news  from  the  grave 
yard,"  whether  it  comes  from  old  fogey  professors  or  from 
parents  or  preachers,  eminent  lawyers  or  business  men, 
great  politicians  or  writers  of  books.  Arrogant  and 
sweeping,  sparing  nothing  sacred — young.  Ignorant,  con 
fused  and  groping,  almost  wistful — new.  They  are  be 
coming  no  insignificant  part  in  this  swiftly  changing  na 
tional  life. 

Joe  Kramer  was  one  of  the  pioneers. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IT  was  with  an  unpleasant  shock  of  surprise  that  I 
found  Joe  liked  the  harbor. 

When  I  took  him  home  for  Christmas  he  spent  half 
his  time  down  there  on  the  docks.  He  explored  the  whole 
region  for  miles  around,  in  a  week  he  spoke  in  familiar 
terms  of  slips  and  bays  and  rivers  that  to  me  were  still 
nothing  but  names.  Moreover,  he  liked  my  father.  And 
my  father,  opening  up  by  degrees,  showed  an  unmis 
takable  relish  for  Joe. 

They  had  long  talks  in  the  study  at  night,  where  I 
could  hear  them  arguing  about  the  decline  of  our  ship 
ping,  the  growth  of  our  trusts  and  railroads,  graft  and 
high  finance  and  strikes,  the  swift  piling  up  of  our 
troubles  at  home — and  about  the  great  chance  we  were 
losing  abroad,  the  blind  weak  part  we  were  playing  in 
this  eager  ocean  world  where  every  nation  that  was  alive 
was  rushing  in  to  get  a  place.  As  their  voices  rose  loud 
and  excited,  even  my  young  sister  Sue,  who  was  just 
out  of  high  school  now  and  doing  some  groping  about 
of  her  own,  would  go  into  the  study  to  listen  at  times. 
But  I  kept  out.  For  already  I  was  tired  again  of  all  these 
harbor  problems,  I  wanted  to  get  at  life  through  Art!. 
And  I  felt  besides  that  if  I  entered  into  long  talks  with 
my  father,  sooner  or  later  he  would  be  sure  to  bring  up 
the  dreaded  question  of  my  going  into  his  business.  And 
this  I  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  do.  For  my  dislike 
of  all  his  work,  his  deepening  worries,  his  dogged  ab 
sorption  in  his  tiresome  hobby  of  ships,  was  even  sharper 
than  before. 

"That  dad  of  yours,"  Joe  told  me,   "is  a  mighty  in- 

66 


THE   HARBOR  67 

teresting  old  boy.  He  lias  had  a  big  life  with  a  big 
idea." 

"Has  he?"  said  I.     "Then  he's  lost  it." 

"He  hasn't!  That's  just  the  trouble.  He  thinks  he's 
a  comer  when  he's  a  goer — he  can't  see  his  idea  is  out  of 
date.  It's  a  pity,"  he  added  sadly.  "When  a  man  can 
spend  his  days  and  nights  hating  the  trusts  and  the  rail 
roads  as  he  does,  it's  a  pity  he's  so  darned  old  in  his  views 
of  what  ought  to  be  done  about  it.  Your  father  believes 
that  if  only  we'd  get  a  strong  navy  and  a  large  mercantile 
marine ; 

"Oh,  cut  it,  J.  K,"  I  said  pettishly.  "I  tell  you  I 
don't  care  what  he  believes!  The  next  thing  you'll  be 
telling  me  is  that  I  ought  to  take  a  job  in  his  warehouse !" 

"You  might  do  worse,"   said  Joe. 

"What?"  I  demanded  indignantly. 

"That's  just  what  I  said.  If  you'd  go  on  a  paper  and 
learn  to  write  like  a  regular  man  I'd  be  tickled  to  death. 
But  if  all  you  want  to  be  in  life  is  a  young  Guy  de 
Maupassant  and  turn  out  little  gems  for  the  girls,  then 
I  say  you'd  be  a  lot  better  off  if  you  went  into  your  father's 
warehouse  and  began  telling  Wall  Street  to  get  off  the 
roof!" 

"Thank  you,"  I  said  stiffly. 

From  that  talk  Joe  and  I  began  drifting  apart.  I 
never  brought  him  home  again,  I  saw  less  of  him  at  col 
lege.  And  at  the  end  of  the  college  year  he  went  to  New 
York,  where  he  found  a  job  on  a  paper. 

And  so  all  through  my  senior  year  I  was  left  undis 
turbed  to  "queer"  myself  in  my  own  sweet  way,  which 
was  to  slave  for  hours  over  Guy  de  Maupassant  and  other 
foreign  authors,  write  stories  and  sketches  by  the  score, 
and  with  two  other  "Ishmaelites"  plan  for  a  year's  work  in 
Paris.  The  French  prof  was  delighted  and  spurred  us 
on  with  glowing  accounts  of  life  in  "the  Quarter."  One 
of  us  wanted  to  be  a  painter.  No  place  for  that  like 
Paris!  Another  an  architect — Paris!  Myself  a  writer 


68  THE    HARBOR 

— Paris!  For  what  could  American  writers  to-day,  with 
their  sentimental  little  yarns  covering  with  a  laugh  or  a 
tear  all  the  big  deep  facts  of  life,  show  to  compare  to  the 
unflinching  powerful  work  of  the  best  writers  over  in 
France?  In  Paris  they  were  training  men  to  write  of 
life  as  it  really  is !  How  that  prof  did  drum  it  in.  Better 
still,  how  he  talked  it  up  to  my  mother — the  last  time 
she  came  to  college. 

I  soon  found  she  was  on  my  side.  If  only  she  could 
bring  father  around. 

I  still  remember  vividly  that  exciting  night  in  June 
when  the  three  of  us,  back  there  at  home,  sat  on  the  ter 
race  and  fought  it  out.  I  remember  the  beauty  of  the 
night,  I  mean  of  the  night  up  there  in  the  garden  under 
the  stars,  my  mother's  garden  and  her  stars,  and  of  the 
hideous  showing  put  up  by  my  father's  harbor  below. 

Of  course  he  opposed  my  going  abroad.  His  old  in 
difference  to  me  had  vanished,  I  saw  he  regarded  me  now 
as  worth  while,  grown  up,  a  business  asset  worth  fighting 
for.  And  my  father  fought.  He  spoke  abruptly,  pas 
sionately  of  the  great  chance  on  the  docks  down  there.  I 
remember  being  surprised  at  his  talk,  at  the  bigness  and 
the  intensity  of  this  hunger  of  his  for  ships.  But  of 
what  he  said  I  remembered  nothing,  I  did  not  hear,  for 
I  was  eyeing  my  mother. 

I  saw  she  was  watching  him  pityingly.  Why?  What 
argument  had  she  still  to  use?  I  waited  in  increasing 
suspense. 

"So  that's  all  there  is  to  it,"  I  heard  him  end.  "You 
might  as  well  get  it  right  out  of  your  head.  You're  not 
going  over  to  Europe  to  fool  away  any  more  of  your  time. 
You're  going  to  buckle  down  right  here." 

"Billy,  leave  us  alone,"  said  my  mother. 

What  in  the  name  of  all  the  miracles  did  she  do  to  him 
that  night — my  mother  so  frail  (she  had  grown  so  of 
late),  my  father  so  strong?  The  next  day  she  told  me 
he  had  consented. 


THE   HARBOR  69 

I  saw  little  of  him  in  the  next  two  weeks.     He  left 
me  alone  with  her  every  evening.     But  when  I  watched 
him  he  looked  changed — beaten  and  broken,  older.     In 
spite  of  myself  I  pitied  him  now,  and  a  confused  uneasi 
ness,  almost  remorse,  came  over  me  at  the  way  I  had  op- 1 
posed  him.    "What's  come  over  Dad  ?"  I  wondered.   Once  ' 
I  saw  him  look  at  my  mother,  and  his  look  was  frightened, 
crushed.     What  was  it  she  had  told  him? 

Those  evenings  I  read  "Pendennis"  aloud  for  the  third 
time  to  my  mother.  It  had  been  our  favorite  book,  and 
I  took  anxious  pains  to  show  her  how  I  loved  it  still.  But 
once  chancing  to  look  quickly  up,  I  caught  my  mother 
watching  me  with  a  hungriness  and  an  utter  despair  such 
as  I'd  never  seen  before.  It  struck  me  cold,  I  looked 
away — and  suddenly  I  realized  what  a  selfish  little  beast 
I  was,  beside  this  woman  who  loved  me  so  and  whom  I 
was  now  leaving.  My  throat  contracted  sharply.  But 
when  I  looked  back  the  look  was  gone,  and  in  its  place 
was  a  quiet  smile. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  you  must  do  fine  work,"  she  said.  "I 
want  it  so  much  more  than  anything  else  in  my  whole 
life.  In  my  whole  life,"  she  repeated.  I  came  over  to 
her  chair,  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  hard. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  going !  I'm  sorry !"  I  whispered.  "But 
mammy !  It's  only  for  a  year !" 

Why  did  that  make  her  cling  to  me  so?  If  only  she 
had  told  me. 

But  what  young  egotists  we  sons  are.  It  was  only  a 
few  days  later  that  with  my  two  college  chums,  from 
the  deck  of  an  ocean  liner,  I  said  good-by  to  the  harbor. 

"Thank  God  I'm  through  with  you  at  last." 


CHAPTEK   IX 

I  WAS  in  Paris  for  two  years. 

In  those  first  weeks  of  deep  delight  I  called  it,  "The 
Beautiful  City  of  Grays."  For  this  town  was  certainly 
mellowed  down.  No  jar  of  an  ugly  present  here,  no  loud 
disturbing  harbor.  But  on  the  other  hand,  no  dullness 
of  a  fossilized  past.  What  college  had  been  supposed 
to  do  this  city  did,  it  took  the  past  and  made  it  alive, 
richly,  thrillingly  alive,  and  wove  it  in  with  the  present. 
In  the  first  Sorbonne  lectures,  even  with  my  meager 
French,  I  felt  this  at  once,  I  wanted  to  feel  it.  These 
profs  were  brilliant,  sparkling,  gay.  They  talked  as 
though  Rousseau  and  Voltaire,  Hugo,  Balzac  and  Flau 
bert,  Maupassant  and  all  the  rest  were  still  vital  dazzling 
news  to  the  -world,  because  these  men  were  still  molding 
the  world.  And  from  here  exploring  out  over  the  town, 
I  was  smilingly  greeted  everywhere  by  such  affable  gra 
cious  old  places,  that  seemed  to  say: 

"We've  been  written  about  for  a  thousand  years,  and 
now  you  also  wish  to  write.  How  charming  of  you.  Please 
sit  down.  Gargon,  un  bock." 

And  I  sat  down.  Scenes  from  the  books  of  my  great 
idols  rose  around  every  corner,  or  if  they  didn't  I  made 
them  rise.  There  was  pride  in  the  process.  To  go  to 
the  Place  de  la  Republique,  take  a  seat  before  some  cheap, 
jolly  cafe,  squint  out  at  the  Place  with  an  artist's  eye,  re 
construct  the  Bastille,  the  Great  Revolution,  dream  back 
of  that  to  Rousseau  and  Voltaire  and  the  way  they  shook 
the  world  by  their  writings — and  then  wake  up  and  find 
that  I  had  been  at  it  for  three  mortal  hours!  What  a 
chap  I  was  for  dreams.  I  must  be  quite  a  genius.  There 

70 


THE   HARBOR  71 

wsre  hours  with  Hugo  in  Notre  Dame  in  one  of  its  most 
shadowy  corners;  with  Zola  on  top  of  a  'bus  at  night  as 
it  lumbered  up  into  the  Belleville  slums;  with  Bakac  in 
an  old  garden  I  found;  with  Guy  de  Maupassant  every 
where,  in  the  gay  hum  and  lights  of  those  endless  cafes, 
from  bridges  at  sunset  over  the  Seine,  or  far  up  the  long 
rich  dusk  of  the  Champs  filysees,  lights  twinkling  out, 
and  his  women  laughing,  chattering  by. 

Nothing  left  in  this  rich  old  world  but  the  harbor? 
Nothing  beautiful,  fine  or  great  for  an  eager,  hungry, 
happy  young  man  ?  I  could  laugh !  I  knew  now  that  the 
harbor  had  lied!  For  into  this  radiant  city  not  only  the 
past  but  the  whole  present  of  the  earth  appeared  to  me 
to  be  pouring  in.  Painters,  sculptors,  writers  and  build 
ers  were  here  from  all  nations,  with  even  some  Hindus 
and  Japs  thrown  in,  young,  bringing  all  their  dreams  and 
ambitions,  their  gaiety,  their  vigor  and  zest. 

"Young  men  are  lucky.     They  will  see  great  things." 

Voltaire  had  said  that  about  thirty  years  before  the 
French  Revolution.  It  had  been  true  then,  true  ever 
since,  it  was  true  to-day  and  here — though  our  great  things 
I  felt  very  sure  were  not  to  come  in  violence — the  world 
had  gone  beyond  all  that.  No,  these  immense  surprises 
that  were  lurking  just  before  us,  these  astounding  mira 
cles  that  were  to  rise  before  our  eyes,  would  come  in  the 
unfolding  of  the  powers  in  men's  minds,  working  free 
and  ranging  wide,  with  a  deep  resistless  onward  rush — in 
the  stirring  times  of  peace! 

And  we  were  not  only  to  see  great  things  but  we  were 
all  to  do  them !  That  was  the  very  keynote  of  the  place. 
Here  a  fellow  could  certainly  write  if  only  he  had  it  in 
him.  Impatiently  I  slaved  at  my  French.  Five  hours 
sleep  was  plenty. 

In  the  small  apartment  we  had  taken  just  on  the  edge 
of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  on  the  nights  when  we  were 
working  at  home,  one  of  us  at  his  easel,  another  at  his 
drafting  board,  myself  at  my  desk,  we  would  knock  off  at 


72  THE   HARBOR 

about  eleven  o'clock  and  come  down  for  beer  and  a  long 
smoke  in  front  of  the  cafe  below.  A  homely  little  place 
it  was,  with  two  rows  of  small  iron  tables  in  front,  and 
at  one  of  these  we  would  seat  ourselves.  Behind  us  in 
the  window  was  a  long  glass  tank  of  gold  fish,  into  which 
from  time  to  time  a  huge  cat  would  reach  an  omnivorous 
paw.  Often  from  within  the  cafe  we  would  hear  Russian 
folk  songs  played  on  balalaikas  by  a  group  of  Russian 
students  there.  And  between  the  songs  a  low  hubbub 
rose,  in  French  and  many  other  tongues,  for  here  were 
French  and  Germans,  English  and  Bohemians,  Rus 
sians  and  Italians,  all  gathered  here  while  they  were 
young. 

How  serene  the  old  city  seemed  those  nights.  The 
street  outside  was  quiet.  The  motor  'bus,  that  pest  of 
Paris,  had  not  yet  appeared.  Only  an  occasional  cab 
would  come  tinkling  on  its  way.  Our  street  was  absurdly 
short.  At  one  end  was  a  gay  cluster  of  lights  from  the 
crowded  cafes  of  the  "BouP  Mich',"  at  the  other  were 
the  low  lighted  arches  at  the  back  of  the  Odeon,  from 
which  when  the  play  was  over  fluffy  feminine  figures 
would  emerge  from  the  stage  entrance;  we  would  hear 
their  low  musical  voices  as  they  came  merrily  by  us  in 
cabs.  Other  figures  would  pass.  Across  the  street  before 
us  rose  the  trees  and  the  lofty  iron  fence  of  the  Gardens, 
with  a  rich  gloom  of  shrubs  behind,  and  against  this 
background  figures  in  groups  and  alone  and  in  couples 
would  come  strolling  by  with  their  happiness  or  hurrying 
eagerly  toward  it.  Or  to  what  else  were  they  hurrying? 
From  what  were  they  coming  so  slowly  away?  , 

These  strangers  in  this  setting  thrilled  me.  Comedy, 
tragedy,  character,  plot — there  seemed  nothing  in  life 
but  the  writing  of  tales — watching,  listening,  dreaming, 
finding,  then  becoming  deeply  excited,  feeling  them  grow 
inaide  of  you,  planning  them  out  and  writing  them  off, 
then  working  them  over  and  over  and  over,  little  by  little 
building  them  up.  What  a  rich  absorbing  life  for  a  fel- 


THE   HARBOR  73 

low,  and  for  me  it  still  lay  all  ahead.  I  had  used  but 
twenty-two  years  of  my  life,  there  were  fifty  left  to  write 
in,  and  what  couldn't  you  write  in  fifty  years ! 

Often,  sitting  here  at  night,  I  would  get  an  idea  and 
begin  to  work,  and  I  would  keep  on  until  at  last  the  enor 
mous  old  woman  who  kept  the  cafe — we  called  her  "The 
Blessed  Damozel" — would  come  lumbering  out  and  good 
humoredly  growl, 

"Couches-toi  done.     Une  heure  vient  de  sonner." 


There  came  a  brief  interruption.  Into  our  street's  pro 
cession  one  evening,  over  its  round  cobble-stones  on  a  bi 
cycle  that  wearily  wobbled,  there  came  a  lean  dusty  figure 
with  something  distinctly  familiar  in  the  stoop  of  the  big 
shoulders. 

"Hello,  boys,"  said  a  deep  gruff  voice. 

"J.  K !" 

It  was.  Joe  Kramer  arriving  in  Paris  at  midnight  on 
a  punctured  tire,  and  cursing  the  cobblestone  pavements 
over  which  he  had  hunted  us  out. 

A  hot  supper,  a  bottle  of  wine,  a  genial  beam  on  all 
three  of  us,  and  Joe  told  his  story.  After  leaving  col 
lege,  from  New  York  he  had  gone  to  Kansas  City,  and 
by  the  "livest  paper"  there  he  had  been  sent  abroad  with 
a  bike  to  do  a  series  of  "Sunday  specials."  He  had  com© 
over  steerage  and  written  an  expose  of  his  passage.  He 
had  two  weeks  for  Paris  and  then  was  off  to  Berlin  and 
Vienna. 

"I'm  just  breaking  ground  this  time,  boys,"  he  said. 
"I  want  to  get  the  hang  of  the  countries  and  a  start  in 
their  infernal  languages." 

The  next  day  he  began  to  break  ground  in  our  city. 
Early  the  next  morning  I  found  Joe  propped  up  in  bed 
scowling  into  Le  Matin  as  he  tried  to  butt  his  way 
through  the  language  into  the  news  events  of  the  day. 


74  THE    HARBOR 

What  I  tried  to  tell  him  of  the  Paris  I  had  found  made 
no  appeal  whatever. 

"All  right,  Kid,"  he  said  indulgently.  "If  I  had  a 
dozen  lifetimes  I  might  be  a  poet.  But  I  haven't,  so  I'll 
just  be  a  reporter." 

And  he  and  his  bike  plunged  into  the  town.  He  found 
its  "newspaper  row"  that  day  and  a  Frenchman  to  whom 
he  had  a  letter.  With  this  man  Joe  went  to  the  Bourse 
and  that  night  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  He  got 
"Sunday  specials"  out  of  them  both,  and  then  went  on  to 
the  Bourse  de  Travail.  And  in  the  few  spare  moments 
he  had,  Joe  told  us  of  the  things  he  had  seen.  Rumors 
of  war  and  high  finance,  trade  unions,  strikes  and  sabotage 
burst  on  my  startled  artist's  ears.  It  made  me  think  of 
the  harbor!  This  was  not  my  Paris! 

"It  is,"  said  J.  K.  stoutly.  "There's  no  place  like  a 
newspaper  office  to  put  you  right  next  to  the  heart  of  a 
town." 

He  would  not  hear  to  our  seeing  him  off.  I  remember 
him  that  last  night  after  supper  strapping  his  bag  onto 
his  bike  and  starting  off  down  our  quiet  old  street  on  his 
way  to  the  station. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "I'll  stop  off  in  Leipsic.  I  want 
to  have  a  look  at  the  college  that  stirred  my  young  grand 
father  up  for  life.  I've  got  his  diary  with  me." 

Again,  in  spite  of  the  gniffness,  I  felt  that  wistful 
quality  in  him.  J.  K.  was  hunting  for  something  too. 


CHAPTER   X 

BUT  what  a  relief  to  see  him  go,  to  forget  his  loud  dis 
turbing  Paris  and  again,  drink  deep  of  mine,  the  city  of 
great  writers. 

"I'll  never  really  knew  them,"  I  thought,  "until  I  can 
not  only  talk  but  think  and  feel  in  their  language." 

So  I  drudged  for  hours  a  day  in  my  room.  I  inflicted 
my  French  on  my  chums  at  meals,  on  defenseless  drivers 
of  'buses  who  could  not  rise  and  go  away,  and  on  the 
Blessed  Damozel,  who  said: 

"Va  done,  cherches-toi  une  fille.  C'est  la  seule  maniere 
d'apprendre  le  Francais." 

I  was  vaguely  thrilled  by  this  idea,  the  more  because 
so  far  in  my  life  I  had  had  no  experience  of  the  kind. 
On  the  streets,  in  cabs,  and  in  cafes  I  began  watching 
women  with  different  eyes,  more  eagerly  selecting  eyes 
that  picked  out  of  the  throng  the  one  her  of  the  mo 
ment  so  that  for  me  she  was  quite  alone.  She  was  alone 
for  a  thousand  reasons,  different  ones  in  every  case.  She 
was  of  many  ages,  rich  and  poor,  now  gorgeous  and  now 
simply  dressed,  now  a  ravishing  creature  that  took  your 
breath  and  again  just  funny  and  very  French  with  a  saucy 
way  of  wearing  her  clothes.  Her  fascinations  were  al 
ways  new.  I  watched  her  twinkling  earrings,  her  trick 
of  using  her  lips  when  she  smiled,,  her  hands,  her  silk 
clad  ankles,  her  swelling  young  bust,  the  small  coquettish 
hat  she  wore,  her  shoulders,  their  expressive  shrugs,  her 
quick  vivacious  movements — and  I  watched  her  eyes.  Her 
eyes  would  meet  mine  now  and  then,  often  with  only  a 
challenging  smile  but  again  in  an  intimate  dazzling  way; 

75 


76  THE    HARBOR 

that  gave  me  a  deep  swift  shock  of  delight  and  left  me 
confused  and  excited. 

"In  a  little  while,"  I  thought.  I  decided  to  wait  till 
I  knew  more  French.  "She'll  be  strange  enough,  God 
knows,"  I  thought  half  apprehensively,  "even  when  I  can 
talk  her  language."  And  with  a  feeling  almost  of  relief  I 
'would  plunge  back  into  my  work  and  forget  her.  For  me 
she  was  only  an  incident  in  this  teeming  radiant  life. 

I  must  learn  French!  I  strained  my  ears  at  lectures, 
at  plays  from  the  top  gallery,  I  hired  a  tutor  to  hurry  it 
on.  Years  later  in  !New  York  I  met  a  Russian  revolu 
tionist  come  to  raise  money  for  his  cause.  "Three  weeks 
have  I  been  in  this  country,"  he  said  in  utter  exaspera 
tion.  "And  not  yet  do  I  speak  fluently  the  English!" 
That  was  how  I  felt  about  French.  What  a  delight  to 
begin  to  feel  easy,  to  catch  the  fine  shadings,  the  music 
.and  color  of  words  and  of  phrases.  How  much  more 
pliant  and  smooth  and  brilliant  than  English.  How  re 
mote  from  the  harbor. 

I  could  study  my  models  now,  not  only  their  construc 
tion  but  their  small  character  touches  as  well.  De  Mau 
passant  was  still  first  for  me.  So  simple  and  sure,  with 
so  few  strokes  but  each  stroke  counting  to  the  full,  one 
suggestive  sentence  making  you  imagine  the  rest,  every 
thing  else  in  the  world  shut  out,  your  mind  gripped  sud 
denly  and  held,  focussed  on  this  man  and  this  woman  who 
a  moment  before  had  been  nothing  to  you  but  were  now 
more  real  than  life  itself.  Especially  this  woman,  what 
an  absorbing  creature  he  made  her — and  the  big  human 
ideas  he  injected  into  these  petites  histoires. 

I  wrote  short  stories  by  the  score.  Each  one  had  a  per 
fectly  huge  idea  but  each  seemed  worse  than  the  one 
before.  I  took  to  myself  the  advice  of  Flaubert,  and 
from  a  table  before  a  cafe  I  would  watch  the  people 
around  me  and  jot  down  the  minutest  details,  I  filled 
whole  pages  with  my  strokes.  But  which  to  choose  to 
make  this  person  or  this  scene  like  no  other  in  the  world  ? 


THE   HARBOR  77 

There  came  the  rub.  How  had  De  Maupassant  done  it  ? 
The  answer  came  to  me  one  night : 

"Not  only  by  watching  people.  He  talked  to  'em,  lived 
with  'em,  knew  their  lives!" 

The  very  thing  my  music  teacher  had  said  about  Bee 
thoven.  How  uneasy  I  had  been  then,  how  absurdly 
young  and  priggish  then  in  the  gingerly  way  I  had  gone 
at  the  harbor.  Thank  heaven  there  was  no  harbor  here. 
I  could  enter  this  life  with  a  wholehearted  zest. 

I  began  with  one  of  my  roommates.  He  was  to  be  an 
architect.  A  hard-working  little  chap,  his  days  were  filled 
with  sharp  suspense.  The  Beaux  Arts  entrance  examina 
tions  were  close  ahead.  If  he  did  not  pass,  he  told  me,  his 
parents  in  Ohio  were  too  poor  to  give  him  another  chance. 

"If  I  have  to  go  back  to  Ohio  now,"  he  said  in  that 
soft  reflective  voice  of  his,  "I'll  put  up  cowsheds — later 
on,  barns — and  maybe  when  I'm  fifty,  a  moving  picture 
theater.  If  I  stay  here  and  go  back  a  Beaux  Arts  man,  I 
can  go  to  New  York  or  Chicago  and  get  right  into  the 
center  of  the  big  things  being  done." 

With  a  wet  towel  bound  around  his  head  he  used  to 
sit  at  his  work  half  the  night.  I  watched  the  lines  tighten 
about  his  thin  lips  and  between  his  gray  eyes,  grew  to 
know  the  long  weariness  in  them  over  some  problem,  the 
sudden  grim  joy  when  the  problem  worked  out.  One 
day  he  came  home  early. 

"Queer,"  he  said  simply.  "I  can  see  one  side  of  your 
face,  one  side  of  your  body,  one  leg  and  one  arm.  But  the 
other  side  don't  seem  to  be  there."  I  looked  up  at  him 
a  moment. 

"Let's  go  out  for  a  walk,"  I  suggested.  "We  went  for 
a  stroll  in  the  Gardens.  And  here  I  was  surprised  and 
just  a  bit  ashamed  to  find  that  while  I  had  a  real  sympathy 
for  him  I  had  just  as  real  curiosity.  For  here  was  a  liv 
ing  illustration  of  the  horror  of  going  blind.  I  could  see 
his  jaws  set  like  a  vise,  I  could  hear  his  low  voice  talking 
steadily  on  as  though  to  keep  from  thinking.  What  was 


,78  THE    HARBOR 

he  thinking?  What  was  he  feeling?  We  talked  of  the 
most  commonplace  things.  But  moment  by  moment, 
through  his  voice  and  his  grip  on  my  arm,  those  sudden 
waves  now  of  sickening  fear,  now  of  keen  suspense,  now 
of  angry  groping  around  for  a  foothold,  seemed  pouring 
from  him  right  into  me,  became  part  of  me — while  the 
other  part  of  me  stood  off  and  listened. 

"By  God,  this  is  life!"  said  one  part  of  me.  "No,  it 
isn't;  it's  hell,"  growled  the  other  part.  "This  thing  has 
got  to  be  settled !" 

I  took  him  to  an  oculist,  and  there  I  had  another  close 
view,  this  time  of  intense  relief. 

"Blind?  Why,  no,  you're  not  going  blind,"  said  the 
oculist  kindly.  "All  you  need  is" — I  heard  nothing  more. 
I  had  never  had  any  idea  before  of  how  swift  and  deep 
relief  could  be.  On  the  street  outside  I  heard  it  not  only 
in  his  unsteady  laugh  but  in  my  own  as  well.  We  cele 
brated  long  that  night,  and  very  late  he  took  me  to  his 
favorite  place  down  on  the  lower  quay  of  the  river,  where 
with  the  lights  and  the  sounds  of  the  city  far  off  it  felt 
like  some  old  dungeon.  But  just  over  our  heads  hung  the 
heavy  black  arch  of  a  stone  bridge,  and  looking  up  through 
this  arch  as  a  frame  we  could  see  close  above  a  gray, 
luminous  mass  rising  and  rising  in  great  sweeping  lines 
till  it  filled  half  the  sky — silent,  tremendous,  Notre  Dame. 
From  down  here  the  old  edifice  seemed  alive.  And 
though  my  friend  talked  little  here,  I  felt  him  again  com 
ing  into  me.  And  this  time  it  was  his  religion  that  came, 
his  curious  passion  for  building. 

When  at  last  we  went  home  he  could  see  my  whole  body, 
and  I  felt  as  though  I  had  seen  his  whole  soul. 

Then  I  carefully  wrote  this  down  on  paper.  I  put  in 
every  touch  that  I  could  remember.  I  rewrote  it  to  make 
it  big,  and  I  made  it  so  big  I  spoiled  it  all.  I  tore  this  up 
and  began  again.  For  about  two  weeks  I  wrote  nothing 
else.  But  at  last  I  tore  up  everything.  After  all,  he  was 
a  friend  of  mine. 


THE   HARBOR  79 

"But  where's  the  harm,"  I  argued,  "so  long  as  I  always 
tear  it  up?  This  is  real  stuff.  I'll  get  somewhere  this 
way  if  I  keep  on." 

And  I  did  keep  on.  Shamelessly  I  wormed  my  way  into 
friends  by  the  dozen.  I  found  it  such  an  absorbing  pur 
suit  I  could  hardly  wait  to  finish  up  one  before  I  went  on 
to  another.  There  were  such  a  bewildering  lot  of  them, 
now  that  I  had  pried  open  my  eyes.  Would-be  painters, 
sculptors,  poets,  dramatists,  novelists,  rich  and  poor,  tragic 
ones  and  comic  ones,  with  the  meanest  pettiest  jealousies, 
the  most  bumptious  self-conceits,  the  blindest  worship  of 
masters,  the  most  profound  humility,  ambition  so  savage 
it  made  men  inhuman.  Many  were  starving  themselves  to 
death. 

There  was  a  little  Hungarian  Jew,  an  ardent  follower  of 
Matisse. 

"Technique  ?"  he  cried.  "It  is  nothing !  To  grip  your 
soul  in  your  two  hands  and  press  it  on  your  canvas — that 
is  art,  that  is  Matisse !" 

He  took  me  night  after  night  through  old  buildings  up 
in  Montparnasse,  immense  and  dismal  rookeries  crowded 
with  Poles,  Bohemians  and  God  knows  what  other  races, 
all  feverish  post-impressionists.  Often  we  would  find 
three  together  close  around  one  candle,  scowling  and 
squinting  at  their  easels,  gaunt,  silent,  eager.  Matisse — 
Matisse ! 

"Most  of  them,"  said  my  guide,  "are  just  mad.  They 
cannot  paint.  All  think  they  are  going  to  do  great  things, 
but  all  they  are  going  to  do  is  to  die." 

It  was  through  this  little  Hungarian  that  I  made  my 
first  study  of  female  life. 

Why  delay  any  longer?  I  had  been  in  Paris  over  six 
months,  and  I  had  qualms  almost  of  guilt  at  the  thought 
of  this  chastity  of  mine.  At  first  I  said,  "Art  is  a  jealous 
mistress."  And  this  did  splendidly  for  a  time.  But  then 
a  stout  German  youth  came  along  and  laid  it  down  as  an 
absolute  law  that  no  writer  could  do  a  woman  right  until 


80  THE   HARBOR 

&e  liad  lived  with  a  dozen.  Hence  that  scented  little  cat 
'with  whom  he  had  lived  for  the  past  year.  She  was  the 
first  of  the  dozen,  eh  ?  Damn  the  fellow,  how  much  was 
there  in  it  ?  De  Maupassant  certainly  hadn't  held  off.  In 
fact  there  were  few  of  my  idols  who  had.  Why  not  be 
brave  and  take  the  plunge  ?  It  need  not  be  such  a  terrific 
i  plunge ;  no  doubt  if  I  went  at  it  right  I  could  find  a  safe, 
easy  kind  of  a  lier,  friendly  and  confiding,  a  thoroughly 
good  fellow  with  none  of  these  wild  ups  and  downs.  The 
less  temperament  the  better;  she  must  have  a  good  quiet 
head  on  her  shoulders ;  no  doubt  we  would  need  it.  And 
she  must  not  be  too  young.  Let  her  have  had  affairs 
enough  to  know  that  ours  was  only  one  more  and  would 
probably  be  as  brief  as  the  rest — the  briefer  the  better. 

So  tamely  I  pictured  my  first  love.  And  the  gay  old  city 
of  Paris  smiled,  and  in  that  bantering  way  of  hers  she 
brought  to  me  in  a  cafe  one  night  a  perfect  young  tigress 
of  a  girl,  a  lithe,  dusky  beauty  with  smouldering  eyes,  and 
said: 

"Without  doubt  this  one  is  better  for  you.  Regard 
what  loveliness,  what  fire!  Oh,  my  son,  why  not  be 
brave  ?" 

I  was  not  brave,  I  barely  spoke,  and  my  friend  the 
little  Hungarian  Jew  who  had  brought  her  to  my  table 
was  forced  to  do  the  talking.  For  she,  too,  was  silent. 
But  how  different  was  her  silence  from  the  quiet  I  had 
pictured.  Presently,  however,  I  became  a  little  easier, 
and  by  degrees  we  began  to  talk.  She  told  me  she  was  a 
painter.  An  Armenian  by  birth,  she  had  run  away  from 
home  at  eighteen,  and  here  for  two  years  in  Julien's  she 
had  tried  to  paint  till  she  felt  she'd  go  mad.  She  talked 
in  abrupt,  eager  sentences,  breaking  off  to  watch  people 
around  us.  How  her  big  eyes  fastened  upon  them.  "To 
watch  faces  until  you  are  sure — and  then  paint!  There 
is  nothing  else  in  the  world!"  she  said.  And  I  found 
this  reassuring. 

After  that  I  saw  her  many  nights.     And  from  time  to 


THE   HARBOR  81 

time  breaking  that  silence  of  hers,  she  became  so  fiercely 
confiding,  not  only  about  her  painting,  but  about  what 
she  called  her  innermost  soul,  that  soon  I  could  look  my 
De  Maupassant  square  in  the  face,  man  to  man,  for  I  was 
learning  a  lot  about  women.  As  yet  we  were  friends  and 
nothing  more,  but  I  could  feel  both  of  us  changing  fast. 
"In  a  little  while,"  I  thought. 

But  alas.  One  night  she  took  me  up  to  her  room  and 
showed  me  her  paintings.  They  were  bad.  They  were 
fearfully  bad,  and  my  face  must  have  shown  the  impres 
sion  they  made. 

"You  consider  them  frightful!"  she  exclaimed.  I 
stoutly  denied  it,  but  things  only  went  from  bad  to  worse. 
Here  was  that  temperament  I  had  dreaded.  Now  she  was 
clutching  both  my  arms. 

"Mon  dieu!  Why  not  say  it?  Why  cannot  you  say 
it?" 

"No,"  I  replied.  "You  have  done  some  extremely 
powerful  work !"  Anything  to  quiet  her  nerves.  "Espe 
cially  this  one — look — over  here !"  And  I  pointed  to  one 
of  her  pictures.  <- 

"I  will  show  you  how  I  shall  look  at  it!"  she  cried  in 
a  perfect  frenzy  of  tears.  She  snatched  up  a  knife  that 
lay  on  her  table,  a  very  old,  curved,  Armenian  knife,  and 
went  at  the  painting  and  slashed  it  to  shreds,  and  then 
scattered  the  shreds  all  over  the  room. 

And  watching  this  little  festival,  I  thought  to  myself 
excitedly, 

"I  know  enough  about  this  girl !" 

My  retreat  was  so  precipitate  as  to  appear  almost  a 
flight. 

"Yes,"  I  said  to  myself,  outside,  "De  Maupassant  knew 
women.  And  he  went  insane  at  forty-five." 

And  so  my  next  case  was  a  chap  from  Detroit,  whose 
aim,  he  told  me,  was  no  less  than  to  make  himself  "by 
the  sheer  force  of  my  will  a  perfect,  all-round,  modern 
man." 


82  THE    HARBOR 

It  was  over  his  case  that  I  lost  what  was  left  of  my 
sense  of  honor.  For  I  not  only  wrote  him  down,  I  kept 
what  I  had  written.  "Ten  years  from  now,"  I  said  in 
excuse,  "I  won't  believe  him  unless  he's  on  paper."  But 
having  kept  this,  I  began  keeping  others,  until  my  locked 
drawer  was  filled  with  the  dreams  and  ambitions  and  even 
the  loves  of  my  confiding,  innocent  friends.  At  last  I  was 
a  writer. 

What  a  relief  when  my  mother  wrote  that  my  father  had 
consented  to  a  second  year  abroad  for  me.  In  my  grati 
tude  I  even  grew  just  a  trifle  homesick. 

"Hadn't  I  better  come  home  for  the  summer  ?"  I  wrote 
her. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "we  cannot  afford  it.  I  want  you  to 
keep  right  on  with  your  work.  I  feel  so  sure  you  are 
working  hard  and  will  do  things  I  shall  be  proud  of." 

I  was  not  only  working,  but  living,  feeling,  listening 
hard,-  under  the  stimulus  day  and  night  of  the  tense,  rich 
life  around  me.  About  this  time  I  made  a  friend  of  a 
gaunt,  bearded  Russian  chap,  whose  dream  for  years  had 
been,  like  mine,  to  become  a  writer  of  fiction.  His  god 
had  been  Turgenief.  And  a  year  ago,  leaving  his  home, 
a  little  town  near  Moscow,  with  forty  roubles  in  his  purse 
he  had  set  out  on  foot  with  a  pack  on  his  back  to  tramp 
the  long  and  winding  road  that  stretched  away  two  thou 
sand  miles  to  the  distant  city  of  Paris,  the  place  where 
his  idol  had  lived  and  studied  and  written  for  so  many 
years.  Through  this  young  Russian  pilgrim  I  came  to 
know  the  books  of  some  of  his  countrymen,  and  through 
him  I  caught  glimpses  down  into  the  vast,  mysterious 
soul  of  that  people  in  the  North. 

Through  other  chaps  I  met  those  days,  other  deep,  tre 
mendous  vistas  opened  up  as  backgrounds  for  these  Paris 
friends  of  mine.  Half  the  night,  in  that  cafe  endeared 
to  so  many  youths  of  all  nations  under  its  name  of  "The 
Dirty  Spoon,"  I  heard  talk  about  all  things  under  the 
sun,  talk  that  was  a  merry  war  of  words,  ideas  and  points 


THE   HARBOR  83 

of  view  as  wide  apart  as  that  of  a  Jap  and  a  German.  For 
every  land  upon  the  earth  had  sent  its  army  of  ideas,  and 
they  all  charged  together  here,  and  the  walls  of  the  Dirty 
Spoon  resounded  with  the  battle — with  roars  of  laughter 
and  applause.  For  we  were  of  free,  tolerant  minds.  We 
were  gay,  young  dogs  of  war  who  had  left  our  tails  behind 
us — our  tails  of  prejudice,  distrust — and  our  emancipated 
souls  had  only  scorn  for  hatreds  born  of  race  or  creed. 
Like  J.  K.,  we  had  rid  ourselves  of  all  creeds  past  and 
present — but  J.  K.  had  always  been  free  with  a  scowl,  his 
feet  set  grimly  on  the  ground — we  here  were  free  with  a 
verve  and  a  dash  that  took  us  careering  up  into  the  stars 
to  laugh  at  the  very  heavens. 

There  was  breadth  in  our  very  manner  of  speech.  For 
here  were  we  from  all  over  the  earth,  all  speaking  one 
tongue,  the  language  in  which  half  the  things  that  had 
moved  the  world  had  been  said  by  men  before  us.  And 
what  sparkling  things  there  were  still  to  be  said,  what 
dazzling  things  we  would  see  and  do,  in  this  prodigious  on 
ward  march  of  the  armies  of  peace,  out  of  all  dark  ages 
into  a  glad  new  world  for  men,  where  our  great  smiling 
goddess  of  all  the  arts  would  reign  supreme,  where  we 
would  dream  mighty  visions  of  life  and  all  these  visions 
would  come  true. 

So  we  saw  the  world  those  days  in  the  radiant  city  on 
the  Seine. 

And  meanwhile  far  up  in  the  North,  the  Eussian  Czar, 
having  started  with  loud  ostentation  the  movement  for  a 
:  worldwide  peace,  was  swiftly  completing  his  preparations 
to  strike  with  his  armies  at  Japan.  And  the  other  na 
tions  of  Europe,  jealous  and  suspicious  of  each  other's 
every  secret  plan — they,  too,  were  making  ready  for  what 
the  future  years  might  bring. 

"Young  men  are  lucky.     They  will  see  great  things." 

And  these  young  men  have  seen  great  things.  But  they 
have  not  been  lucky. 


CHAPTEE   XI 

IT  was  about  a  year  after  this  that  again  Joe  Kramer 
broke  in  on  my  dreams. 

He  arrived  early  on  a  raw,  wet  morning  in  the  follow 
ing  winter.  His  all-night  ride  from  Cherbourg  had  left 
him  disheveled,  unshaven  and  hungry. 

"Well,  boys,"  he  asked  when  our  greetings  were  over, 
"what  do  you  think  of  the  news  ?" 

"What  news  ?" 

Joe  gave  us  a  grim,  fatherly  smile. 

"Say.  Do  I  have  to  come  all  the  way  from  Chicago  to 
tell  you  what's  happening  down  the  street?  Well,  you 
young  beauty  boosters,  there's  a  panic  on  the  Bourse  this 
week  that's  got  your  fair  city  flat  on  her  back.  And  the 
cause  of  the  said  panic  is  that  France  is  in  deep  on  Rus 
sian  bonds,  which  are  now  worth  about  a  cent  to  the  dol 
lar.  Because  the  Russian  people — already  dead  sick  of  the 
war  with  Japan — have  risen  in  a  howling  mob  against 
their  government.  See  ?" 

"I  did  hear  of  that,"  said  the  painter  among  us.  "A 
Polish  chap  in  the  studio  said  something  about  it  yester- 
day." 

"Now,  did  he  ?"  said  the  ironical  Joe.  "Just  kind  of 
murmured  it,  I  suppose,  while  bending  reverently  over 
his  art."  He  rose.  "Well,  boys,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but 
I've  only  got  a  day  in  this  town,  I'm  off  for  Russia  on  the 
night  train.  Bill,  I  wish  you'd  help  me  here.  I've  got 
an  awful  lot  to  do  and  my  French  is  still  a  little  weak." 

It  was  not  at  all  weak,  it  was  strong  and  loud.  I  can 
hear  it  still,  Joe  Kramer's  French,  and  it  is  a  fitting 
memory  of  that  devastating  day. 

84 


THE    HARBOR  85 

The  day  began  so  splendidly,  so  big  with  promise  of 
great  ideas.  I  grew  quite  excited  about  it.  Here  was 
Joe  on  his  way  to  a  real  revolution.  Sent  out  by  his  Ohi- 
cago  paper,  he  was  going  to  Russia  to  see  a  whole  people 
fight  to  be  free — a  struggle  prophesied  long  ago  by  Tur- 
genief,  Tolstoy  and  other  big  Russians  whose  work  I  ad 
mired.  And  now  it  was  actually  coming  off — and  Joe, 
the  lucky  devil,  was  going  to  be  right  on  hand!  From 
some  mysterious  source  in  New  York  he  had  secured  a 
letter  to  a  Russian  revolutionist  leader  who  for  many 
years  had  been  an  exile  here  in  Paris.  Joe  was  anxious  to 
see  him  at  once. 

"All  right,"  I  said  eagerly.    "Give  me  his  address." 

"Hold  on,"  J.  K.  retorted.  "It's  not  so  easy  as  all  that. 
I  want  to  get  into  Russia.  This  man's  house  in  Paris  is 
watched  day  and  night  by  the  Russian  secret  police,  and 
nobody  who's  seen  with  him  has  a  chance  of  crossing  the 
frontier.  We've  got  to  go  slow." 

"What'll  we  do  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  steer  me  first  to  a  Frenchman.  He's  an 
anarchist.  Here's  his  address." 

The  anarchist  was  a  bit  disappointing.  A  mild  little 
man,  we  found  him.  in  an  attic  room  receiving  a  vigorous 
scolding  from  the  huge  blonde  with  whom  he  lived.  But 
after  reading  Joe's  letter,  he,  too,  took  on  a  mysterious 
air.  He  came  with  us  in  our  cab,  and  off  we  went  over 
Paris  until  I  thought  we  should  never  end.  Again  and 
again  the  cab  would  stop  and  our  guide  would  darkly 
disappear.  But  from  one  of  these  trips  he  returned 
triumphant. 

"I  have  found  his  wife,"  he  announced.  "But  she  says 
she  must  have  a  look  at  you  first."  The  cab  rattled  off, 
and  the  next  stop  was  in  front  of  a  public  library. 

"Now,"  said  our  guide,  "go  in  and  sit  down  at  a  table 
and  pretend  you  are  reading." 

We  went  in  and  did  as  he  said.  Soon  a  middle-aged 
woman  in  black  sat  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  table. 


86  THE    HARBOR 

She  stared  at  us  gloomily  a  moment ;  then  with  a  yawn  she 
opened  a  book  and  calmly  started  making  notes.  Pres 
ently,  scowling  over  her  work,  she  began  muttering  to 
herself. 

"You  must  not  look  up,"  I  heard  in  French.  "A  Rus- 
sian  spy  sits  over  there.  You  wish  to  see  my  husband. 
Come  to-night  at  nine  o'clock  to  the  second  floor  of  the 
Cafe  Voltaire.  He  will  be  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Good- 
by."  And  she  yawned  again  over  her  writing. 

"K"ow,  this,"  I  thought,  "is  a  revolution !"  I  thoroughly 
approved  of  this.  The  Cafe  Voltaire  was  an  excellent 
choice,  an  almost  perfect  mise-en-scene.  It  had  long  been 
one  of  my  favorite  haunts.  A  tall  white  wooden  building, 
so  toned  down,  so  tumbled  down,  so  heavy  laden  with 
memories  of  poets,  dramatists,  pamphleteers  and  fiery 
young  orators,  who  had  sat  here  and  conspired  and 
schemed  and  exhorted  over  human  rights.  It  had  well 
lived  up  to  its  glorious  name.  What  great  ideas  had 
started  from  here !  Here  French  history  had  been  made ! 

But  alas!  Into  this  hallowed  spot  that  night,  at  nine 
o'clock  on  his  way  to  his  train,  came  Joe  in  a  yellow 
mackintosh  with  a  brand-new  suitcase  in  his  hand — and 
showed  me  history  in  the  making.  It  was  made  in  a  small, 
stuffy  room  upstairs.  On  the  one  side  J.  K.  with  a  mil 
lion  American  readers  behind  him,  on  the  other  this  revo 
lutionist  whose  name  that  week  had  been  in  newspapers  all 
over  the  world.  So  far,  so  good.  But  look  at  him,  look 
at  this  history  maker.  Tall,  sallow  and  dyspeptic,  a  pro 
fessor  of  economics.  Romance,  liberty,  history,  thrill? 
Not  at  all.  They  talked  of  factories,  wages,  strikes,  of 
railroads,  peasants'  taxes,  of  plows  and  wheat  and  corn 
and  hay !  They  got  quite  excited  over  hay. 

And  all  this  had  to  come  through  their  defenseless  in 
terpreter — me.  My  head  ached,  one  foot  fell  asleep.  The 
Social  Democratic  Party,  the  Social  Revolutionist  Party, 
the  Constitutional  Democrats,  in  and  out  of  my  head  they 
trooped.  If  this  be  revolution,  then  God  save  the  king! 


THE   HAKBOR  87 

Crushed  to  earth,  as  we  left  at  last,  my  head  still  buzzing 
with  economics,  I  looked  dismally  back  on  my  poor  cafe, 
on  liberty,  justice  and  human  rights.  There  was  some 
thing  as  bad  as  the  harbor  in  Joe ;  he  was  always  spoiling 
everything. 

"Why  don't  you  take  Carlyle's  French  Revolution 
along?"  I  suggested  forlornly.  "You  might  read  it  on 
the  train." 

"Because,  you  poor  kid,  he's  way  out  of  date." 

It  took,  me  days  to  get  into  my  work. 

About  two  months  later,  back  he  came.  From  one  of 
our  front  windows  he  looked  down  into  the  old  Gardens, 
into  all  the  loveliness  the  April  twilight  was  bringing 
there,  and, 

"Where  can  I  get  a  typewriter?"  he  asked.  "I've  got 
such  an  awful  lot  of  stuff  that  I  want  to  dictate  it  right  off 
the  bat." 

This  was  literature  in  the  making.  For  hours  in  Joe's 
room  that  week  I  sat  and  heard  him  make  it.  In  one  cor 
ner  lay  a  heap  of  dirty  shirts  and  collars,  in  another  a 
stack  of  papers  and  books.  An  English  stenographer  sat 
at  the  window,  J.  K.  strode  up  and  down  and  talked.  It 
was  real  enough,  this  narrative.  Facts  and  figures,  he 
had  them  down  cold,  to  back  up  with  a  crushing  force  the 
points  he  was  making  against  the  Czar.  Poverty,  tyranny, 
bloody  oppression,  wholesale  slaughter  of  a  people  in  a 
half-mad  monarch's  war — Joe  pounded  them  in  with 
sledgehammer  blows.  He  not  only  made  you  sure  they 
were  true,  he  made  you  sure  that  these  things  must  be 
stopped  and  that  you  as  a  decent  American  certainly 
wanted  to  help  with  your  money.  And  as  for  the  revolu 
tion  itself,  he  left  no  doubt  in  your  mind  about  that.  It 
was  there  all  right,  Joe  had  seen  people  give  up  their  lives, 
he  had  seen  men  and  women  clubbed  and  shot  down,  he 
had  been  so  near  he  had  seen  the  blood.  (But  he  made 
human  blood  so  darned  commonplace,  curse  him!)  And 


88  THE   HARBOR 

in  Petersburg  for  two  long  nights  he  had  gone  about  a  city 
in  darkness,  every  street  light  put  out  by  the  strikers,  the 
streets  filled  with  surging  black  masses  of  figures.  Yes, 
Joe  had  certainly  seen  big  things. 

Then  what  was  the  matter  with  me,  I  thought,  that  all 
this  did  not  thrill  me  ?  "Young  men  are  lucky.  They  will 
see  great  things."  All  right,  here  was  one  of  my  great 
things,  a  whole  nation  rising  to  throw  off  its  chains,  to 
show  the  world  that  wars  must  cease — and  to  me  it  didn't 
seem  great  at  all,  it  seemed  only  big,  and  there  was  a  world 
of  difference.  Big  ?  It  was  enormous,  not  only  what  Joe 
had  seen  up  there,  but  what  he  was  doing  right  here  in 
this  room.  He  was  talking  to  a  million  people,  damn  him, 
and  doubtless  this  was  just  the  kind  of  writing  that  would 
appeal  to  them.  Thousands  of  his  commonplace  readers 
would  send  their  dollars  to  Russia,  where  dyspeptic  pro 
fessors  of  economics  would  use  the  money  to  hire  halls, 
into  which  millions  of  commonplace  Russians  would  crowd 
to  hear  about  strikes,  wages,  taxes  and  hay!  And  then 
some  more  commonplace  blood  would  be  shed,  the  dys 
peptic  professors  would  be  put  in  office — and  this  was  a 
modern  revolution ! 

Was  everything  modern  only  big  ?  Must  I  always  have 
that  feeling  the  harbor  used  to  give  me  ? 

"No !"  I  decided  angrily.  The  fault  didn't  lie  in  me  nor 
in  Russia,  but  in  J.  K.  and  the  way  he  was  writing.  As 
I  followed  that  blunt  narrative  of  his  journey  through 
cities  and  factory  towns,  into  deep  forests,  across  snowy 
plains  and  through  little  hamlets  half  buried  in  snow  and 
filled  with  the  starving  families  of  the  men  who  had  gone 
to  the  war,  I  tried  to  picture  it  all  to  myself — not  as  he 
described  it,  confound  him,  but  with  all  the  beauty  which 
must  have  been  there.  Ye  Gods  of  the  Road,  what  a  jour 
ney!  What  tremendous  canvases  teeming  with  life,  such 
strange,  dramatic  significant  life !  What  a  chance  for  a 
writer  t 

One  night  on  a  train  whose  fifth-class  cars,  cattle  cars 


THE   HARBOR  89 

and  nothing  more,  were  packed  with  wounded  men  from 
the  front,  out  of  one  of  those  traveling  hells  Joe  had  pulled 
a  peasant  boy  half  drunk,  and  by  the  display  of  a  bottle 
of  vodka  had  enticed  him  into  his  own  compartment  in  a 
second-class  car  ahead.  The  boy's  right  arm  was  a  loath 
some  sight,  festering  from  a  neglected  wound.  Amputa 
tion  was  plainly  a  matter  of  days.  But  it  was  not  to  for 
get  that  grim  event  that  the  boy  had  jumped  off  at  each 
little  station  to  spend  his  few  kopecks  on  vodka.  ISTo,  he 
was  stolidly  getting  drunk  because,  as  he  confided  to  Joe, 
at  dawn  he  would  come  to  his  home  town  and  there  he  knew 
he  was  going  to  tell  twenty-six  wives  that  their  men  had 
been  killed.  He  laboriously  counted  them  off  on  his  fin 
gers — each  wife  and  each  husband  by  their  long,  homely 
Russian  names.  Then  he  burst  into  half -drunken  sobs  and 
pounded  the  window  ledge  with  his  fist.  It  was  the  fist  of 
his  right  arm,  and  the  kid  gave  a  queer,  sharp  scream  of 
pain. 

If  Voltaire  had  been  there  he  would  have  come  back 
and  described  that  peasant  boy  he'd  seen  in  a  way  that 
would  have  gripped  men's  souls  and  sent  a  great  shudder 
over  the  world  at  war  and  what  it  meant  to  mankind — 
while  Joe  was  simply  slapping  it  down  like  some  hustling, 
keen  reporter. 

"Look  here,  Joe;  you  make  me  sick!"  I  exploded  at 
last.  "You  ought  to  stick  right  here  for  months  and  work 
on  this  wonderful  stuff  you've  got  till  there's  nothing  left 
you  can  possibly  do !" 

"Be  an  artist,  eh,  a  poet,  a  great  writer."  He  gave  me 
one  of  those  fatherly  smiles.  "I've  got  some  things  to  say 
to  you,  Kid.  I  don't  like  the  life  you're  leading." 

"Don't  you  ?  Why  don't  yon  ?"  I  rejoined.  And  so  be 
gan  a  fight  that  lasted  as  long  as  he  was  in  Paris. 

Nothing  that  I  had  been  doing  here  made  any  appeal 
whatever  to  Joe.  I  showed  him  my  sketch  of  Notre  Dame 
from  under  that  old  bridge  at  night. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "this  is  fine  writing,  awful  fine.    But  it 


90  THE   HARBOR 

has  about  as  much  meaning  to  me  as  a  woman's  left  ear. 
What's  the  use  of  sitting  down  under  a  bridge  and  looking 
up  at  an  ancient  church  and  trying  to  feel  like  a  two-spot  ? 
For  God's  sake,  Bill,  get  it  out  of  your  system,  quit  get 
ting  reverent  over  the  past.  You're  sitting  here  at  the  feet 
of  the  Masters,  fellahs  who  were  all  right  in  their  day,  but 
are  now  every  one  of  'em  out  of  date.  And  you're  so  in 
fernally  busy  copying  their  technique  and  style  and  trying 
to  learn  just  how  to  write,  that  you're  getting  nothing  to 
write  about.  Why  can't  you  go  to  life  for  your  stuff  2" 

"Go  to  life?"  I  said  indignantly.  "I've  done  nothing 
else  for  over  a  year !" 

"Show  me." 

"Here!" 

He  read  more  of  my  sketches. 

"But  damn  it,  Bill,  these  people  aren't  alive.  They're 
only  a  bunch  of  artist  kids  as  reverent  over  the  past  as 
yourself,  they  have  about  as  much  connection  with  any 
thing  live  and  vital  to-day  as  so  many  mediaeval  monks. 
You  fellahs  think  you're  free  of  creeds.  You're  the  creed- 
iest  kids  I  ever  saw,  your  religion  is  style,  technique  and 
form.  For  God's  sake  lose  it  and  use  your  own  eyes,  for 
get  you're  an  artist  and  be  a  reporter,  come  out  in  the 
world  and  have  a  try.  You'll  find  so  much  stuff  you  won't 
need  any  plots,  you'll  simply  report  events  as  they  happen. 
And  you  won't  have  any  time  for  technique,  the  next  event 
will  be  tuning  up  before  you've  got  to  the  end  of  the  last. 
With  a  big  daily  paper  behind  him  a  good  reporter  can 
follow  the  front  page  around  the  world.  Russia's  on  the 
front  page  now.  All  right,  you  can  go  to  Russia.  By 
June  it  may  be  Hindustan,  or  Pittsburgh,  Turkey  or 
China.  Believe  me,  Bill,  the  nations  of  this  planet  are 
working  themselves  into  a  state  where  they're  ready  to  do 
things  you  never  dreamed  of.  I'm  not  talking  of  kings 
and  governments,  I'm  talking  of  the  people  themselves, 
the  people  in  such  excited  crowds  that  nobody  knows  who's 
who  or  what's  next. 


THE    HARBOR  91 

"I  saw  my  first  crowd  in  Petersburg  the  very  day  I  got 
off  the  train.  They  filled  a  street  from  wall  to  wall  and  as 
far  as  you  could  see.  They  weren't  saying  a  word  or  sing 
ing  a  song,  and  there  wasn't  even  a  drum  to  keep  time. 
But  they  moved  along  with  their  wives  and  kids  as  though 
they'd  left  home,  job  and  church,  and  were  looking  for 
something  else  so  hard  they  didn't  care  for  bullets.  I  saw 
'em  shot  down  like  so  many  sheep.  But  bullets  won't  stop 
what  I  saw  in  their  eyes.  God  knows  I  don't  want  a  re 
ligion.  I'm  no  socialist  nor  anarchist.  But  if  there's  one 
thing  I  want  to  hang  on  to  it's  my  belief  in  the  common 
crowd.  They've  had  a  raw  deal  since  the  world  began. 
They  can  have  the  whole  earth  whenever  they  want  it. 
And  they're  beginning  to  want  it  hard! 

"Forget  your  own  name  and  jump  into  the  crowd,  write 
and  don't  stop  to  remember  you're  writing!  The  place 
you  need  is  the  U.  S.  A. — and  the  work  you  need  is  a  job 
on  a  paper!" 

"Are  you  through  ?"  I  snapped. 

"lam!" 

"All  right,"  said  I.  "I'm  going  to  stay  just  where  I 
am !  I'm  not  going  to  be  yanked  by  you  all  over  the  earth, 
to  write  news  articles  on  the  run!  I'm  going  to  stick 
in  one  place — right  here — and  take  my  time  and  learn 
my  job.  I  don't  want  to  write  news,  I  want  to  write 
books.  I'd  rather  write  one  good  novel  than  all  the  head 
line  stuff  in  the  world.  It's  books  that  make  the  head 
lines." 

"Books?"    Joe's  look  was  funny. 

"Sure  they  do.  Take  Russia.  What  started  this  whole 
revolution?  Books.  It  didn't  start  with  your  common 
crowds — they  were  all  eating  fried  onions.  It  started  with 
a  few  writers  of  novels!" 

"Who  left  their  little  mahogany  desks,"  said  Joe,  "got 
into  peasant  clothes  and  went  to  live  with  the  peasants !" 

"Oh  no  they  didn't.  Only  a  few.  Turgenief  didn't. 
Tchernichefsky  didn't.  Dostoiefsky " 


92  THE    HARBOR 

"Say.  Are  they  Russians  ?  I  never  heard  their  names 
up  there." 

I  looked  at  J.  3L  thoughtfully. 

"No,"  I  said.  "You  wouldn't.  As  yet  they're  not  quite 
crowdy  enough.  But  they  are  Russians  and  their  ideas 
made  most  of  the  first  revolutionists.  The  whole  revolu 
tion  was  started  by  books." 

"It  wasn't,"  snapped  Joe.  "It  was  taxes.  Their  taxes 
were  doubled  because  of  the  war,  and " 

"Oh,  damn  your  war  taxes,  and  damn  your  plows  and 
your  corn  and  hay!  You've  got  a  hay  mind,  that's  the 
trouble  with  you !  You've  got  so  you  think  that  hay  and 
bread  and  pork  and  beans  are  all  men  live  and  die  for! 
They  don't,  Mister  Reporter,  they  die  for  ideals — freedom, 
democracy,  human  rights — which  are  in  'em  so  deep  that 
when  a  big  writer  sees  'em  there  and  brings  'em  out  and 
holds  'em  up  and  says,  'Here!  This  is  you,  this  is  what 
you  want,  this  is  what  you  believe  in !' — your  crowd  says, 
'Sure!  Why  didn't  we  see  it  long  ago?'  And  then  they 
do  things  that  go  into  headlines !  But  to  be  able  to  write 
like  that  a  man  can't  go  chasing  all  over  the  earth,  he's 
got  to  quit  sneering  at  art  and  technique,  he's  got  to  learn 
how  to  make  characters  real  and  build  plots  that  make 
readers  sit  up  all  night  to  see  what  becomes  of  the  people 
he's  made !  If  believing  that  is  a  creed,  then  I'm  creedy ! 
I'm  willing  to  throw  over  everything  else,  but  I'll  hang 
on  to  this  one  thing  all  my  life — the  fact  that  big  art 
means  working  like  hell !" 

"Gee,"  said  J.  K.    "What  an  artist." 

These  fights  of  ours  left  me  weak  and  sore,  as  though 
I'd  been  back  on  the  terrace  at  home,  listening  to  my  father 
talk  and  looking  at  his  harbor. 


CHAPTEE    XII 

Joe  left  me  in  peace  at  last,  just  for  the  sake  of 
the  rest  and  change  I  turned  my  attention  to  music,  or, 
rather,  to  a  musical  friend,  a  young  Bohemian  composer 
who  lived  wholly  in  a  world  of  his  own.  I  explored  this 
musical  world  of  his,  by  his  side  in  dark  top  galleries,  in 
the  Cafe  Rouge  on  concert  nights,  in  his  room  at  his  piano. 
How  deliciously  far  away  from,  hay  was  this  chap's  feel 
ing  for  Mozart.  With  him  I  could  feel  sure  of  myself, 
of  the  way  I  was  living  for  my  art,  of  what  my  mother  way 
back  at  the  start  had  called  the  "fine  things"  in  humanity. 

I  remember  the  night  we  heard  "Boheme"  from  the 
gallery  of  the  Opera  Comique.  I  remember  the  talk  we 
had  late  that  night,  and  my  walk  by  the  edge  of  the  Gar 
dens  home — and  the  letter  and  the  cable  that  I  found 
waiting  on  my  desk.  The  letter  was  from  my  father  and 
told  me  that  my  mother  was  dying.  The  cable  told  me 
she  was  dead. 

I  remember  learning  that  letter  by  heart  on  that  long 
ocean  voyage  home.  This  was  no  sudden  illness,  I  learned, 
my  mother  had  known  of  it  while  I  was  home,  known  that 
she  had  it  and  that  it  was  fatal.  That  was  the  news  she 
had  told  my  father  alone  that  night  on  the  terrace !  That 
was  why  she  had  been  so  eager  to  get  me  away  to  Paris; 
that  was  why  she  had  kept  me  abroad! 

"She  did  not  want  you  to  see  how  she  looked,"  my  father 
wrote.  "She  wanted  you  to  remember  her  always  as  she 
was  when  you  saw  her  last." 

I  remembered  her  now.  What  a  young  beast  I  had  been 
to  forget  her,  to  drop  her  so  utterly  out  of  my  thoughts- 
in  that  selfish  happy  Paris  life,  when  it  was  she  who  had 
sent  me  there,  when  it  was  she  who  had  set  me  free  for  a 
time  from  the  harbor  which  was  now  dragging  me  back, 

93 


94  THE   HARBOR 

when  it  was  she  from  the  very  start  who  had  fostered  this 
passion  for  "all  that  is  fine."  I  remembered  her  now — 
remembered  and  remembered — until  her  dear  image  filled 
me. 

My  father's  letter  went  on  to  tell  how  she  had  fought 
for  her  life.  Three  operations,  all  three  of  them  failures, 
but  still  she  had  held  bravely  on  in  hopes  of  some  new 
discovery  which  science  might  make  and  so  bring  her  a 
cure.  A  thought  suddenly  gripped  me  and  struck  me 
cold.  It  had  all  depended  on  science,  on  men  working 
calmly  and  coldly  along  in  laboratories  all  over  the  world, 
while  my  mother  had  held  to  her  thread  of  life  and  hoped 
that  these  laboratory  gods  would  hurry,  hurry  while  yet 
there  was  time !  How  many  thousands  like  her  every  day, 
every  hour  all  over  the  world  were  watching  those  gods 
with  that  awful  suspense.  For  they  were  the  only  gods 
that  were  left,  and  a  comfortless  set  of  gods  they  were! 
They  were  like  J.  K.,  they  had  hay  minds!  They  were 
businesslike,  relentless,  cold,  they  belonged  to  the  world 
of  the  harbor !  My  mother's  kind  god  was  a  myth  and  a 
joke,  with  no  power  here  one  way  or  the  other.  I  felt  that 
now,  I  had  thought  it  before,  only  thought  it,  with  that 
gay  freedom  of  thought  we  had  aired  back  there  in  Paris. 
But  I  knew  now  that  deep  underneath  I  had  believed  all 
along  in  this  god  of  hers,  as  I  had  in  my  beautiful  goddess 
of  art  and  in  all  the  things  that  were  fine.  It  had  taken 
this  news  from  the  harbor  to  bring  him  tottering,  crashing 
down.  For  no  god  like  hers  would  have  let  her  die !  And 
I  felt  fear  now,  the  fear  of  Death,  whom  I'd  never  really 
noticed  before  and  who  now  seemed  to  say  to  me, 

"She  is  nothing — has  gone  nowhere — she  is  only  dead !" 
And  fiercely  in  a  bewildered  way  I  rebelled  against 
this  emptiness.  I  rebelled  against  this  world  of  hay  that 
was  so  abruptly  dragging  me  back  to  a  sense  of  its  almighty 
grip  on  my  life.  When  my  ship  came  up  the  Bay,  the 
world  looked  harsh  and  gray  to  me,  though  there  was  a 
bright  and  sunny  glare  on  the  muddy  waves,  of  the  harbor. 


BOOK  II 


BOOK  II 

CHAPTEE   I 

MY  mother  had  been  buried  several  days  before  I 
reached  home. 

I  found  Sue  waiting  on  the  dock,  and  I  saw  with  a 
little  shock  of  surprise  that  my  young  sister  was  grown 
up.  I  had  never  noticed  her  much  before.  Sue  and  I  had 
never  got  on  from  the  start.  She  had  been  my  father's 
chum  and  I  had  been  my  mother's.  I  had  always  felt  her 
mocking  smile  toward  me  and  all  my  solemn  thoughts. 
And  after  that  small  catastrophe  which  I  had  had  with 
Eleanore,  I  had  more  than  ever  avoided  Sue  and  her  girl 
friends.  Then  I  had  gone  to  college,  and  each  time  that 
I  came  home  she  had  seemed  to  me  all  arms  and  legs,  fool 
secrets  and  fool  giggles — a  most  uninteresting  kid.  I  re 
member  being  distinctly  surprised  when  I  brought  Joe 
home  for  Christmas  to  find  that  he  thought  her  quite  a 
girl.  But  now  she  was  all  different.  She  had  grown  tall 
and  graceful,  lithe,  and  in  her  suit  of  mourning  she  looked 
so  much  older,  her  face  thin  and  worn,  subdued  and  soft 
ened  by  all  she'd  been  through.  For  the  weight  of  all 
those  weary  weeks  had  been  upon  her  shoulders.  There 
was  something  pitiful  about  her.  I  came  up  and  kissed 
her  awkwardly,  then  found  myself  suddenly  holding  her 
close.  She  clung  to  me  and  trembled  a  little.  I  found  it 
hard  to  speak. 

"I  wish  I'd  been  here,  too,"  I  said  gruffly. 

"I  wish  you  had,  Billy — it's  been  a  long  time." 

All  at  once  Sue  and  I  had  become  close  friends. 

97 


98  THE    HARBOR 

We  had  a  long  talk,  at  home  that  day,,  and  she  told  me 
how  our  parents  had  drawn  together  in  the  last  years,  of 
how  my  poor  mother  had  wanted  my  father  close  by  her 
side  and  of  how  he  had  responded,  neglecting  his  busi 
ness  and  spending  his  last  dollar  on  doctors,  consultations 
and  trips  to  sanitariums,  anything  to  keep  up  her  strength. 
He  had  even  read  "Pendennis"  aloud.  How  changed  he 
must  have  been  to  do  that.  I  knew  why  she  had  wanted 
to  hear  it  again.  It  had  been  our  favorite  book.  I  re 
membered  how  I  had  read  it  to  her  just  before  I  went 
abroad,  and  how  I  had  caught  her  watching  me  with  that 
hungry  despairing  look  in  her  eyes.  What  a  young  brute 
I  had  been  to  go!  ...  For  a  time  Sue's  voice  seemed 
far  away.  Then  I  heard  her  telling  how  over  that  story 
of  a  young  author  my  mother  had  talked  to  my  father 
of  me. 

"He's  going  to  try  to  know  you,  Billy,  and  help  you," 
said  Sue.  "He  promised  her  that  before  she  died.  And 
I  hope  you're  going  to  help  him,  too.  He  needs  you  very 
badly.  You  never  understood  father,  you  know.  I  don't 
believe  you  have  any  idea  of  what  he  has  gone  through  in 
his  business." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?    Have  things  gone  wrong  ?" 

"I  don't  understand  it  very  well.  He  hardly  ever  speaks 
of  it.  I  think  he'd  better  tell  you  himself." 

That  evening  in  his  library,  from  my  seat  by  the  table, 
I  furtively  watched  my  father's  face.  He  sat  in  a  huge 
chair  against  the  wall,  with  a  smaller  chair  in  front  for 
his  feet,  his  vest  unbuttoned,  his  short  heavy  body  settled 
low  as  he  grimly  kept  his  eyes  on  his  book.  The  strong 
overhead  light  which  shone  on  his  face  showed  me  the 
deeper  lines,  all  the  wrinkles,  the  broad  loose  pouch  of 
skin  on  the  throat,  the  gray  color,  the  pain,  the  weakness 
and  the  age  in  his  motionless  eyes.  What  was  going  on  in 
there  ?  Sometimes  it  would  seem  an  hour  before  he  turned 
another  page.  All  afternoon  he  had  been  at  her  grave. 


THE   HARBOR  99 

He  had  given  her  no  happy  life.  Was  it  of  that  he  was 
thinking  ?  I  felt  ashamed  to  he  wondering,  for  he  seemed 
so  weak  and  old  in  his  grief.  Two  years  ago  his  hair  had 
been  gray,  but  he  had  still  looked  strong  and  hale.  I  could 
hardly  feel  now  that  he  was  the  same  man.  I  felt  drawn  to 
him  now,  I  wished  he  would  put  down  his  book  and  talk 
and  tell  me  everything  about  her. 

But  what  an  embarrassing  job  it  is  to  get  acquainted 
with  one's  father.  When  Sue  had  left  us  after  dinner, 
there  had  been  a  few  brief  remarks  and  then  this  long 
tense  silence.  I,  too,  pretended  to  be  reading. 

"Your  mother  thought  a  lot  of  you,  boy."  He  spoke  at 
last  so  abruptly  that  I  looked  up  at  him  with  a  start,  and 
saw  him  watching  me  anxiously. 

"Yes,  sir."  I  looked  quickly  down,  and  our  eyes  did 
not  meet  again  after  that. 

"It  was  her  pluck  that  kept  you  in  Paris — while  she 
was  dying." 

I  choked: 

"I  know." 

"You  don't  know — not  how  she  wanted  you  back — 
you'll  never  know.  I  wanted  to  write  you  to  come  home." 

"I  wish  you  had!" 

"She  wouldn't  hear  of  it!" 

"I  see."  Another  silence.  Why  couldn't  I  think  of 
something  to  say  ? 

"She  kept  every  letter  you  wrote  her.  They're  up  there 
in  her  bureau  drawer.  She  was  always  reading  'em — over 
and  over.  She  thought  a  lot  of  your  writing,  boy — of 
what  you  would  do  when — when  she  was  dead."  The  last 
earne  out  almost  fiercely.  I  waited  a  moment,  got  hold 
of  myself. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  brought  out  at  last. 

"I  hope  you'll  make  it  all  worth  while." 

"I  will.  I'll  try.  I'll  do  my  best."  I  did  not  look  up, 
for  I  could  still  feel  his  anxious  eyes  upon  my  face. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back  to  Paris  ?" 


100  THE    HARBOR 

"No,  sir !  I  want  to  stay  right  here !"  What  was  the 
matter  with  my  fool  voice  ? 

"Have  you  got  any  plans  for  your  writing  here  ?  How 
are  you  going  about  it  to  start  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  to  begin  with — I've  got  some  stuff  I  did 
abroad." 

"Stories?" 

"Not  exactly " 

"Poems?"     My  father's  look  was  tragic. 

"No." 

And  I  tried  to  explain  what  I  had  been  doing.  But  my 
attempts  to  tell  him  of  my  work  in  Paris  were  as  forced 
and  as  pathetic  as  his  efforts  to  attend.  More  and  more 
halting  grew  our  talk,  and  it  ended  in  a  silence  that  seemed 
to  have  no  end.  Then  I  went  to  the  fireplace,  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  my  pipe,  refilled  it  and  relit  it.  When  I 
returned  he  was  reading  his  book,  and  with  deep  relief  I 
took  up  mine.  That  much  of  it  was  over. 

But  again  I  found  myself  watching  him.  What  was  in 
my  father's  mind  ?  Why  this  anxious  almost  humble  tone  ? 
It  made  me  wince,  it  made  me  ashamed.  I  sat  there  all 
evening  pretending  to  read  and  feeling  that  he  was  doing 
the  same. 

"Good  night,  dad — I  think  I'll  go  to  bed."  Even  thu 
little  came  clumsily.  I  had  never  called  him  "dad"  be 
fore. 

"Good  night,  my  boy.    See  you  at  breakfast." 

"Yes,  sir." 

I  glanced  back  as  I  turned  down  the  hall  and  saw  hiix 
staring  after  me. 

What  was  it  he  was  thinking  ? 


CHAPTER   II 

"!'M  closing  out  my  business,  son,"  he  told  me  the  next 
morning.  Here  was  another  sharp  surprise.  I  did  not 
look  at  him  as  I  asked : 

"Why  are  you  doing  that,  sir  ?" 

"It's  a  long  story.  Times  have  changed  and  I'm  get 
ting  old." 

Again  I  felt  suddenly  drawn  to  him.  He  was  old  and 
no  mistake.  Why  had  I  never  known  him  till  now  ? 

"Look  here — Dad."  The  last  word  still  came  awk 
wardly.  "Can't  I  possibly  be  any  help  down  there  ?"  He 
shot  an  anxious  look  at  me: 

"Why,  yes.  Glad  to  have  you.  I  still  have  a  young 
clerk,  but  I'd  rather  have  you." 

Only  one  clerk !  What  had  gone  wrong  with  his  busi 
ness? 

But  that  day  in  his  warehouse,  which  was  empty  now 
and  silent,  the  mere  ghost  of  what  it  had  been,  he  seemed 
in  no  hurry  to  show  me.  On  the  contrary,  he  went  back  to 
the  ledgers  of  his  earliest  years  in  business,  on  the  flimsy 
pretext  of  looking  up  certain  figures  and  dates.  He  did 
not  need  me  here,  the  work  he  gave  me  was  absurd,  I  was 
simply  taking  the  musty  books  from  their  piles  in  the 
closet  and  arranging  them  by  years  on  the  floor.  "To  save 
time,"  he  said.  But  he  himself  was  still  on  that  first 
ledger,  stopping  to  talk,  to  ramble  off  from  the  pages  be 
fore  him.  What  did  it  mean  ?  As  the  days  wore  on  and 
he  still  delayed  and  at  night  that  strange  humility  crept 
again  into  his  eyes,  with  a  slowly  deepening  suspense  I 
came  to  feel  that  instead  of  saving  time  my  father  was 
trying  to  make  it,  to  go  far  back  into  his  vigorous  past 

101 


102  THE    HARBOR 

for  strength  to  meet  his  present — because  he  dreaded  what 
we  would  find  at  the  end  of  our  work  on  these  dusty  books, 
the  last  grim  figure  in  dollars  and  cents  that  would  stand 
there  as  the  result  of  his  life,  as  the  stepping-stone  for 
Sue's  and  mine.  And  that  was  why  he  wanted  me  here, 
this  was  his  way  of  telling  me  the  story  of  his  business 
life — before  I  saw  what  lay  at  the  end.  And  as  in  our 
work  that  story  unfolded,  though  at  times  it  cast  its  spell 
on  me  hard,  revealing  what  a  man  he  had  been,  there  were 
other  times  when  from  somewhere  deep  inside  of  me  a 
small  selfish  voice  would  ask : 

"What  is  left?  How  much  has  he  saved  from  the 
wreck  ?  What  is  this  going  to  mean  to  my  life  ?" 

In  the  ledgers  his  story  was  still  alive.  Yellow  and 
dusty  as  they  were,  for  me  day  by  day  they  revivified  that 
still  odorous  old  warehouse  until  I  saw  it  as  it  had  been,  a 
huge  dim  caravansary  for  the  curious  products  of  all  the 
earth.  And  that  trick  of  feeling  a  man,  which  I  had 
learned  in  Paris,  made  me  keenly  sensitive  now  to  this 
lonely  old  stranger  by  my  side  with  whom  I  was  becoming 
acquainted.  I  could  feel  the  pull  of  these  books  upon  him, 
pulling  him  out  of  his  cramped  old  age  back  to  his  glad 
boundless  youth.  How  suddenly  spacious  they  became 
as  he  slowly  turned  the  pages.  Palm  oil  from  Africa,  cot 
ton  from  Bombay,  coffee  from  Arabia,  pepper  from  Su 
matra.  Turn  the  page.  Ivory  from  Zanzibar,  salt  from 
Cadiz  and  wines  from  Bordeaux.  Turn  the  page.  Whale 
oil  from  the  Arctic,  iron  from  the  Baltic,  tortoise  shell 
from  the  Fiji  Islands.  Turn  the  page !  India  silks  and 
rugs  and  shawls,  indigo,  spices !  Turn  the  page ! 

I  began  to  see  the  sails  speed  out  along  those  starlit  ocean 
roads.  I  began  to  feel  the  forces  that  had  shaped  my 
father's  life.  And  little  by  little  I  saw  in  those  days 
what  not  even  my  mother  had  understood,  that  in  my 
father's  business  life  there  had  been  more  than  dol 
lars,  that  what  to  us  had  seemed  only  a  hobby,  a  dull 
obstinate  fixed  idea,  had  been  for  him  a  glorious  vision — 


THE   HARBOR  103 

the  white  sails  of  American  clippers  dotting  all  the  seven 
seas. 

So  they  were  in  the  late  Fifties,  when  leaving  the  farm 
in  Illinois  he  came  at  sixteen  to  New  York  and  found  a 
job  as  time  clerk  in  one  of  the  ship  yards  along  the  East 
River.  They  are  all  gone  now,  but  then  they  were  hum 
ming  and  teeming  with  work.  And  my  young  father  was 
deeply  excited.  He  told  me  of  his  first  day  here,  when  he 
stood  on  the  deck  of  a  ferry  and  watched  three  great  clip 
pers  go  out  with  the  tide,  bound  for  Calcutta.  There  were 
pictures  of  these  vessels  on  the  walls  of  his  office,  stately 
East  Indiamen  bearing  such  names  as  Star  of  Empire, 
Daniel  Webster,  Ocean  Monarch,  Flying  Cloud — ships 
known  in  every  port  of  the  world  for  their  speed.  He  told 
how  a  British  vessel,  her  topsails  reefed  in  a  gale  of  wind, 
would  see  a  white  tower  of  swelling  canvas  come  out  of 
the  spray  behind  her,  come  booming,  staggering,  plunging 
by — a  Yankee  clipper  under  royals.  Press  of  sail?  No 
other  nation  knew  what  it  meant!  Our  owners  took  big 
chances,  it  was  no  trade  for  nervous  men ! 

He  found  a  harbor  that  welcomed  young  men,  where 
cabin  boys  rose  to  be  captains,  and  clerks  became  owners 
of  hundreds  of  ships.  To  work !  To  rise !  To  own  yards 
like  these,  build  ships  like  these  and  send  them  rushing 
on  their  courses  out  to  all  parts  of  the  ocean  world !  This 
had  been  his  vision,  at  the  time  when  it  was  bright  and 
clear.  And  as  now  he  made  me  feel  it,  the  crude  vital  force 
that  had  been  in  his  dream  poured  into  me  deep,  made  me 
feel  how  shut  in  and  one-sided  had  been  my  own  vision 
and  standards  of  life,  gave  me  that  profound  surprise 
which  many  sons,  I  suppose,  never  have : 

"My  father  was  once  young  like  me — wiry,  straight 
and  tough  like  me,  and  as  full  of  dreams  of  the  things 
he  would  do." 

But  then  had  come  the  Civil  War.  Although  only  nine 
teen  when  the  war  broke  out,  he  was  already  the  head  clerk 
in  his  office.  "But  like  every  other  young  fool  those  days," 


104  THE    HARBOR 

he  said,  "I  was  caught  by  the  noise  of  a  brass  band!" 
Down  South  as  a  commissary  clerk  he  found  himself  a 
tiny  pawn  in  that  gigantic  game  of  graft  which  made  fat 
fortunes  in  the  North  and  cost  tens  of  thousands  of  sol 
diers  their  lives.  He  himself  took  typhoid,  and  when  the 
war  was  over  he  returned  to  New  York,  weak,  penniless,  to 
find  his  old  work  gone. 

"For  the  war,"  he  said,  "had  busted  American  shipping 
sky  high.  Even  before  it  began  it  had  made  the  South  so 
bitter  that  just  for  the  sake  of  attacking  the  North  the 
Solid  South  in  congress  had  joined  the  damn  fool  Farmer 
West  and  attacked  our  mail  subventions.  'No  more  of 
the  nation's  money,'  they  said,  'for  ship  subsidies  for  New 
York  and  New  England !'  And  so  all  government  protec 
tion  of  our  shipping  was  withdrawn.  And  when  the  war 
ended,  with  forty  per  cent,  of  our  ships  grabbed,  sunk  or 
sold,  it  was  ruination  to  build  any  more,  for  the  British 
and  German  governments  were  pouring  millions  of  dol 
lars  a  year  into  the  Cunard  and  the  North  German  Lloyd, 
and  we  couldn't  compete  against  them. 

"Still  a  few  of  the  ship  yards  kept  on,  and  in  one  of 
these  at  last  I  got  a  job  at  eight  dollars  a  week.  'The  war 
is  over/  we  told  ourselves,  'and  the  government  can't 
stay  blind  forever.  They'll  see  what  they've  done,  and 
within  a  few  months  they'll  go  back  to  the  old  policy.' 
Months?  I  stuck  to  that  job  and  waited  five  years — 
and  still  no  news  from  Washington.  'My  boy,'  said  a 
doddering  Brooklynite,  'the  nation  has  turned  her  face 
westward.' ' 

Then  he  left  the  ship  yards  and  went  into  a  warehouse, 
where  the  work  lay  mainly  in  handling  cargoes  of  foreign 
ships.  And  starting  life  all  over  again  he  tried  to  make 
up  for  lost  time.  The  first  year  he  was  a  shipping  clerk ; 
the  second,  a  bookkeeper;  the  third,  he  kept  two  sets  of 
books  for  two  different  docks,  one  by  day  and  the  other  at 
night.  And  by  forty  he  had  become  a  part  owner  in  the 
old  warehouse  in  which  he  now  sat  grimly  reading  the 


THE   HARBOR  105 

record  of  his  life — of  a  long  stubborn  losing  fight,  for  he 
stuck  to  his  dream  of  Yankee  sails. 

He  married  my  mother  when  he  was  still  strong  and 
full  of  hope.  He  must  have  been  so  much  kindlier  then 
and  brighter,  more  human  to  live  with.  They  bought  that 
pleasant  house  of  ours  with  its  hospitable  front  door.  My 
father's  doddering  Brooklynites  seemed  wonderful  neigh 
bors  to  his  young  wife.  And  so  that  front  door  waited  for 
friends.  As  the  years  dragged  on  and  they  did  not  come, 
she  blamed  it  all  on  the  harbor.  She  saw  what  it  was 
making  him,  jealous  of  every  dollar  and  every  hour  spent 
at  home.  He  worked  all  day  and  half  the  night.  It  took 
him  into  politics,  on  countless  trips  to  Washington,  and 
she  knew  he  spent  thousands  of  dollars  there  in  ways  that 
were  by  no  means  "fine."  It  made  him  morose  and 
gloomy,  a  man  of  one  idea,  to  be  shunned. 

And  she  no  more  saw  behind  all  this  than  I  did  when  I 
was  a  boy.  For  his  vision  was  neither  of  pirates  nor  of 
bringing  the  heathen  to  Christ,  but  of  imports  and  of 
exports.  He  dreamed  in  terms  of  battleships  and  of  a 
mercantile  marine.  Each  year  he  watched  the  chances 
grow,  vast  continents  opening  up  to  commerce  with  hints 
of  such  riches  as  staggered  the  mind.  He  saw  the  ocean 
world  an  arena  into  which  rushed  all  nations  but  ours. 

"Everyone  but  us,"  he  said,  "had  learned  the  big  lesson 
— that  you  can  get  nothing  on  land  or  sea  unless  you're 
ready  to  fight  for  it  hard!" 

He  saw  other  nations  get  ready  to  fight.  He  watched 
them  build  huge  navies  and  grant  heavy  subsidies  to  their 
fast  growing  merchant  fleets,  send  vessels  by  thousands 
over  the  seas.  He  saw  their  shipowners  draw  swiftly 
together  in  great  corporations.  Here  was  an  age  for  im 
mense  adventures  in  this  growing  trade  of  the  world.  To 
wait,  to  hold  on  grimly,  to  keep  up  the  fight  at  Washing 
ton  for  that  miracle,  Protection,  which  would  start  the 
boom.  To  see  the  shipping  yards  teeming  again  with  the 
building  of  ships  by  the  hundreds  and  thousands,  to  see 


106  THE    HARBOR 

them  go  out  again  over  the  seas  with  our  flag  at  the  mast 
and  our  sailors  below.  To  feel  the  new  call  go  over  the 
nation — "Young  men,  come  east  and  west,  come  out! 
The  first  place  on  the  oceans  can  still  be  yours!"  This 
was  my  father's  great  idea. 

Ship  subsidies  and  battleships,  discriminating  tariffs. 
What  a  religion.  But  it  was  his.  Of  the  miracles  these 
things  would  work  my  father  was  more  sure  than  of  a  god 
in  heaven.  For  he  had  thought  very  little  about  a  god, 
and  all  his  life  he  had  thought  about  this.  For  this  he 
had  spent  at  least  half  his  wealth  on  the  congressmen  that 
he  despised.  Bribery  ?  Yes.  But  for  a  religion. 

"Go  all  around  South  America  and  to  the  Far  East," 
he  told  me.  "And  you'll  see  the  flags  at  sea  of  England, 
Germany,  Austria,  France,  of  Russia,  Norway,  Spain, 
Japan.  But  if  you  see  the  American  flag  you'll  see  it 
waved  by  a  little  girl  from  the  deck  of  a  British  liner. 
This  means  that  we  are  losing  in  marine  freights  and  for 
eign  trade  billions  of  dollars  every  year.  And  it  means 
more  and  worse  than  that.  For  it's  ship  building  and  ship 
sailing  that  take  a  nation's  men  out  of  their  ruts,  whip 
up  their  minds  and  imaginations,  make  'em  broad  as  the 
seven  seas.  And  we've  lost  all  that,  we've  thrown  it  away, 
to  breed  a  race  of  farmers — of  factory  hands  and  miners 
and  anarchists  in  slums.  We've  built  a  nation  of  high 
finance — and  graft — and  a  rising  angry  mob.  But  sooner 
or  later,  boy,  this  country  will  wake  up  to  what  it  has 
done.  And  with  our  grip  on  both  oceans  and  the  blood 
we've  still  got  in  our  veins,  we'll  reach  out  and  take  what 
is  ours — as  soon  as  we're  ready  to  fight  for  it  hard — the 
mastery  of  the  ocean  world!" 

For  this  idea  he  had  lived  his  life.  For  this  he  had 
neglected  his  business,  for  this  he  had  lost  favor  with  the 
usurping  foreign  ships — until  his  dock  and  his  warehouse 
were  often  idle  for  weeks  at  a  time. 

And  the  very  bigness  of  things,  the  era  of  big  companies 
which  at  forty  had  thrilled  him  by  the  first  signs  of  its 


THE   HARBOR  107 

coming,  now  cruahed  down  upon  his  old  age.  Vaguely  he 
knew  that  the  harbor  had  changed  and  that  he  was  too  old 
to  change  with  it.  An  era  no  longer  of  human  adventures 
for  young  men  but  of  financial  adventures  for  mammoth 
corporations,  great  foreign  shipping  companies  combining 
in  agreements  with  the  American  railroads  to  freeze  out 
all  the  little  men  and  take  to  themselves  the  whole  port 
of  New  York.  My  father  was  one  of  these  little  men. 
The  huge  company  to  which  he  was  selling  owned  the 
docks  and  warehouses  for  over  two  miles,  and  this  was 
only  a  part  of  their  holdings. 

"Nothing  without  fighting."  That  had  been  his  motto. 
And  he  had  fought  and  he  had  lost.  And  so  in  this  new 
harbor  of  big  companies  my  father  was  now  closing  out. 
Too  late  for  any  business  here,  too  late  for  life  up  there 
in  his  home.  He  had  kept  my  mother  waiting  too  long, 
he  was  ready  at  last  but  she  was  dead.  Too  late.  He  had 
been  born  too  late,  had  dreamed  his  dream  of  sails  too  late, 
and  now  he  was  too  late  in  dying.  There  was  nothing  left 
to  live  for.  How  much  better  for  him  to  be  dead. 


CHAPTER   in 

I  HAVE  tried  to  tell  his  story  as  my  father  felt  it,  at  the 
times  when  it  took  him  out  of  himself  and  made  him  forget 
himself  and  me.  But  there  were  other  times  when  he  re 
membered  himself  and  me,  and  those  were  the  times  that 
hurt  the  most.  For  in  that  new  humility  in  his  eyes  and  in 
his  voice  I  could  feel  him  then  preparing  us  both — me  to 
see  why  it  was  that  he  could  not  do  for  me  what  she  had 
wished;  himself  to  hold  on  grimly,  to  find  a  new  job  for 
his  old  age,  to  keep  from  becoming  a  burden — on  me. 

At  last  we  were  coming  to  the  end — to  that  last  figure 
in  dollars  and  cents.  I  caught  his  suspense  and  we  talked 
little  now.  I  knew  the  price  at  which  he  was  selling,  and 
toward  that  figure  I  watched  the  debts  creep  slowly  up. 
I  saw  them  creep  over,  and  knew  that  we  had  not  a  dollar 
left  to  live  on.  And  still  the  debts  kept  mounting.  How 
small  they  were,  these  last  ones,  a  coil  of  rope,  two  kegs 
of  paint — the  irony  of  it  compared  to  the  bigness  of  his 
life.  Still  these  little  figures  climbed.  At  last  he  handed 
me  his  balance.  He  was  in  debt  four  thousand,  one  hun 
dred  and  forty-six  dollars  and  seventeen  cents. 

He  had  risen  from  his  old  office  chair : 

"Well,  son,  I  guess  that  ends  our  work." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  went  out  of  the  office. 

I  sat  there  dully  for  some  time.  Then  I  remember  there 
came  a  harsh  scream  from  a  freight  engine  close  outside. 
And  I  looked  out  of  the  window. 

The  harbor  of  big  companies,  uglier  than  I  had  ever 
seen  it,  no  longer  dotted  with  white  sails,  but  clouded  with 
the  smoke  and  soot  of  an  age  of  steam  and  iron,  lay 
sprawled  out  there  like  a  thing  alive.  Always  changing, 

108 


THE   HARBOR  109 

always  growing,  it  had  crushed  the  life  out  of  my  father 
and  mother,  and  now  it  was  ready  for  Sue  and  me. 

"I've  got  to  stay  here  and  make  money." 

Good-by  to  the  Beautiful  City  of  Grays.  A  clock  in  an 
outer  room  struck  five.  In  Paris  it  was  ten  o'clock,  and 
those  friends  of  mine  from  all  countries  were  crowding 
into  "The  Dirty  Spoon."  I  could  see  them  sauntering  one 
by  one  on  that  summer's  night  down  the  gay  old  Boule 
vard  Saint  Michel  and  dropping  into  their  seats  at  the 
table  in  the  corner. 

"How  am  I  to  make  money  ?    By  writing  ?" 

I  thought  of  De  Maupassant  and  the  rest,  and  the  two 
years  I  had  spent  in  trying  to  make  vivid  and  real  the  life 
I  had  seen.  In  these  last  anxious  weeks  I  had  sent  some 
of  my  Paris  sketches  to  magazine  offices  in  ISTew  York. 
They  had  all  been  returned  with  printed  slips  of  rejection, 
except  in  one  case  where  the  editor  wrote,  "This  is  a  good 
piece  of  writing,  but  the  subject  is  too  remote.  Why  not 
try  something  nearer  home?" 

"All  right,"  I  thought,  "what's  near  me  here?  Let's 
see.  There's  a  cloud  of  yellow  smoke  I  can  do,  with  a 
brand-new  tug  below  it  dragging  a  string  of  good  big 
barges.  What  are  they  loaded  with  ?  Standard  Oil.  Wait 
till  they  get  closer  and  I  can  even  describe  the  smell! 
No,"  I  concluded  savagely.  "Let's  keep  my  writing  clean 
out  of  this  hole  and  get  the  money  some  other  way !" 

Then  suddenly  I  forgot  myself  and  thought  of  my  stern 
brave  old  dad.  What  under  the  sun  was  he  going  to  do  ? 

That  week  he  mortgaged  our  house  on  the  Heights  for 
five  thousand  dollars.  With  this  he  paid  off  all  his  debts 
and  put  the  balance  in  the  bank.  Then  from  the  big  dock 
company  he  got  a  job  in  his  own  warehouse  at  a  hundred 
dollars  a  month. 

"Kind  of  'em,"  he  said  gruffly.  He  was  sixty-five  years 
old.  They  were  even  kind  enough  to  add  to  that  a  job  for 
me.  I  sat  at  the  desk  next  to  his  and  I  was  paid  ten  dollars 
a  week. 


110  THE   HARBOR 

Sue  let  the  servants  go,  hired  one  green  German  girl 
and  said  she  knew  she  could  run  the  house  on  a  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars  a  month.  But  the  August  bills  went 
over  that,  so  we  drew  money  out  of  the  bank.  My  father 
had  bronchitis  that  week.  We  managed  to  keep  him  in 
bed  for  three  days,  but  then  he  struggled  up  and  dressed 
and  went  back  to  his  desk  in  the  warehouse. 

"Keep  your  eye  on  him  down  there,"  said  Sue.  "He's 
so  terribly  feeble." 

"This  can't  go  on,"  I  told  her. 

I  must  make  more  than  ten  dollars  a  week.  Again  I 
sent  out  some  of  my  sketches,  again  the  magazines  sent 
them  back.  I  went  to  a  newspaper  office,  but  there  an  iron 
ical  office  boy,  with  the  aid  of  the  city  editor,  made  me  feel 
that  reporting  was  not  in  my  line.  What  other  work  could 
I  find  to  do?  How  much  time  did  I  have?  How  long 
was  my  father  going  to  last  ?  I  watched  his  face  and  our 
bank  account.  I  studied  the  "want  ads"  in  the  press. 
But  the  more  I  studied  the  smaller  I  felt,  for  this  was  one 
of  the  years  of  depression.  "Two  Hundred  Thousand  In 
New  York  Idle,"  I  read  in  a  headline.  Here  was  litera 
ture  that  gripped ! 

"I  guess  I'll  stay  right  where  I  am.  It's  safer,"  I 
thought  anxiously.  "Perhaps  if  I  work  hard  enough 
they'll  give  me  a  raise  at  Christmas.  When  Dad  was  my 
age  he  kept  two  sets  of  books,  one  by  day  and  the  other  at 
night.  How  can  I  make  my  evenings  pay  ?" 

I  took  long  walks  in  Brooklyn  and  picked  up  night  work 
here  and  there.  It  was  monotonous  clerical  work,  and 
being  slow  at  figures  I  was  often  at  it  till  midnight.  Very 
late  one  evening,  while  making  out  bills  in  a  hardware 
store,  I  suddenly  came  to  a  customer  whose  initials  were 
J.  K.  It  started  me  thinking  of  Joe  Kramer  and  our  last 
long  talk — about  hay. 

"So  this  is  hay,"  I  told  myself.  "How  long  will  it  take 
me  to  get  a  hay  mind,  back  here  by  this  damned  harbor  ?" 


CHAPTER   IV 

Sue  began  to  take  me  in  hand.  From  the  sub 
dued  and  weary  girl  that  I  had  found  when  I  came  home, 
in  the  last  few  weeks  she  had  blossomed  out.  The  color 
had  come  into  her  cheeks,  a  new  animation  into  her  voice,  a 
resolute  brightness  into  her  eyes. 

"This  thing  has  got  to  stop,  Billy,"  she  said  determin 
edly.  "This  house  has  been  like  a  tomb  for  months,  you 
and  Dad  are  so  gloomy  and  tired  you're  sights.  He  needs 
a  change,  and  so  do  you.  You're  getting  into  a  little  rut 
and  throwing  away  your  chance  to  write.  You  need 
friends  who  are  writers,  you  need  a  lot  of  fresh  ideas  to 
tone  you  up.  There's  plenty  of  money  in  writing.  And 
I  need  a  change  myself.  I  can't  stand  this  house  any 
longer.  After  all,  I've  got  my  own  life  to  live.  I'm  going 
to  get  a  job  before  long.  In  the  meantime  I'm  going  to 
see  my  friends.  And  what's  more,  I'm  going  to  have  them 
here  to  the  house — just  as  often  as  they'll  come!  Let's 
brighten  things  up  a  little !" 

I  looked  at  her  with  interest.  Here  was  another  sister 
of  mine — risen  out  of  her  sorrow  and  eager  to  live,  and 
talking  of  running  our  lives  as  well,  of  curing  us  both  by 
large,  firm  doses  of  "fresh  ideas,"  while  she  herself  looked 
around  for  a  job  that  would  help  her  to  "live  her  own 
life." 

"Look  here,  Sue,"  I  argued  vaguely.  "You  don't  want 
to  take  a  job- " 

"I  certainly  do " 

"But  you  can't !    Dad  wouldn't  hear  to  it !" 

"He'll  have  to — when  I've  found  it.  ~No  poor  feeble 
old  man  supporting  me,  thank  you — quite  probably  no  man 
at  all — ever !  But  you  needn't  worry.  I  won't  take  any 

ill 


112  THE    HARBOR 

old  job  that  comes  along.  And  I  won't  bother  Dad  till 
I've  found  just  what  I  really  want — something  I  can 
grow  in." 

"That's  right,  take  it  easy,"  I  said. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  I  thought  as  I  watched  her. 
It  came  over  me  as  a  distinct  surprise  that  Sue  had  been 
in  all  sorts  of  places  and  had  been  making  all  sorts  of 
friends,  had  been  having  ambitions  and  dreams  of  her 
own — all  the  time  I  had  been  having  mine.  Most  older 
brothers,  I  suppose,  at  some  time  or  another  have  felt 
this  same  bewilderment.  "Look  here,  Sis,"  they  wonder 
gravely,  "where  in  thunder  have  you  been  ?" 

I  took  a  keen  interest  in  her  nOw.  In  the  evenings  when 
I  wasn't  out  working  we  had  long  talks  about  our  lives, 
which  to  my  satisfaction  became  almost  entirely  talks 
about  Tier  life,  her  needs,  her  growth.  Her  delight  in  her 
self,  her  intensity  over  plans  for  herself,  her  enthusiasm 
for  all  the  new  "movements,"  reforms  and  ideas  that  she 
had  heard  of  God-knows-where  and  felt  she  must  gather 
into  herself  to  expand  herself — it  was  wonderful!  She 
was  like  that  chap  from  Detroit,  that  would-be  perfect  all- 
round  man.  But  Sue  was  so  much  less  solemn  about  it,  one 
minute  in  art  and  the  next  in  social  settlements,  so  little 
hampered  by  ever  putting  through  what  she  planned. 

"In  short,  a  woman,"  I  thought  sagely. 

I  felt  I  knew  a  lot  about  women,  although  I  had  had  no 
more  intimate  talks  since  that  affair  in  Paris.  I  had  felt 
that  would  last  me  for  quite  a  while.  But  here  was  some 
thing  perfectly  safe.  A  sister,  decent  but  far  from  dull, 
well  stocked  with  all  the  feminine  points  and  only  too  glad 
to  be  confidential.  She  wanted  to  study  for  the  stage !  Of 
course  that  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  Dad  and  I  would 
stop  darned  quick.  Still — I  could  see  Sue  on  the  stage. 
She  was  not  at  all  like  me.  I  was  middling  small,  with  a 
square  jaw,  snub  nose  and  sandy  hair.  Sue  was  tall  and 
easy  moving,  with  an  abundance  of  soft  brown  hair  worn 
low  over  large  and  irregular  features.  She  had  fascinating 


THE   HARBOR  113 

eyes.  She  could  sprawl  on  a  rug  or  a  sofa  as  lazy  and  in 
dolent  as  you  please — all  but  her  eyes,  they  were  always 
doing  something  or  other,  letting  this  out  or  keeping  that 
back,  practicing  on  me ! 

"Oh,  yes,  she'll  marry  soon  enough,"  I  thought.  "This 
talk  of  a  job  for  life  is  a  joke." 

Some  nights  I  would  listen  to  her  for  hours.  It  was  so 
good  to  come  back  to  life,  to  feel  younger  than  my  worries, 
to  forget  for  a  little  while  that  stark  heavy  certainty  that 
poor  old  Dad  would  soon  be  a  burden  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  that  with  a  family  on  my  hands  I'd  have  to  spend  the 
best  years  of  my  life  slaving  for  a  little  hay. 

I  took  the  same  delight  in  her  friends. 

Starting  with  her  classmates  in  a  Brooklyn  high  school, 
most  of  whom  were  working  over  in  New  York,  Sue  had 
followed  in  their  trail,  and  at  settlements,  in  studios  and  in 
girl  bachelor  flats  she  had  picked  up  an  amazing  assort 
ment  of  friends.  "Kadicals,"  they  called  themselves. 
Nothing  was  too  wild  or  new  for  these  friends  of  Sue's  to 
jump  into — and  what  was  more,  to  tie  themselves  to  by  a 
regular  job  in  some  queer  irregular  office.  "Votes  for 
Women"  was  just  starting  up,  and  one  of  this  group,  a 
stenographer  in  a  suffragette  office,  had  been  in  the  first 
small  parade.  Another,  a  stout  florid  youth  who  wrote 
poems  for  magazines,  had  paraded  bravely  in  her  wake. 
Here  were  two  girls  who  lived  in  a  tenement,  did  their 
own  cooking  and  pushed  East  Side  investigations  that  they 
said  would  soon  "shake  up  the  town."  There  were  several 
rising  miickrakers,  too,  some  of  whom  did  free  work  on 
the  side  for  socialist  papers.  There  was  one  real  socialist, 
a  painter,  who  had  a  red  membership  card  in  his  pocket 
to  prove  that  he  belonged  to  "the  Party."  Others  were 
spreading  music  and  art  and  dramatics  through  the  tene 
ments — new  music,  new  art  and  new  dramatics.  One 
young  husband  and  wife,  intensely  in  love  with  one  an 
other,  were  working  together  night  and  day  for  easier  di 
vorces  which  would  put  an  end  to  the  old-fashioned  home. 


114  THE    HARBOR 

These  people  seemed  to  me  to  be  laughing  at  a.  different 
old  thing  every  time.  But  when  they  weren't  langhing 
they  were  scowling,  over  some  new  attack  upon  life — and 
when  they  did  that  they  were  laughable.  At  least  so  they 
were  to  me.  Not  that  I  minded  attacking  things,  I  had 
done  plenty  of  that  myself  in  Paris.  But  how  different 
we  had  been  back  there.  We,  too,  had  thrown  old  creeds 
to  the  winds,  but  with  how  much  more  finesse  and  art. 
And  there  had  been  a  large  remoteness  about  it.  Each  one 
had  tossed  his  far-away  country  into  the  cosmopolitan  pot, 
our  talk  had  been  on  a  world-wide  scale.  But  this  crude 
crowd,  except  for  occasional  mental  flights,  kept  all  its 
attention,  its  laughs  and  its  jeers,  its  attacks  and  exposures 
centered  on  this  one  mammoth  town,  against  which  as  a 
background  they  seemed  the  merest  pigmies.  Three  little 
muckrakers  loomed  against  Wall  Street,  one  small,  scoffing 
suffragette  against  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  solid 
stolid  Brooklyn  wives.  They  had  posed  themselves  so 
absurdly  close  to  the  world  of  things  as  they  are. 

And  they  were  in  such  a  rush  about  their  work.  Over 
there  in  Paris,  with  all  our  smashing  of  idols,  we  had  at 
least  held  fast  to  our  one  great  goddess  of  art,  we  had 
slaved  like  dogs  at  the  hard  daily  labor  of  honestly  learning 
our  various  crafts.  But  here  they  stopped  for  nothing  at 
all.  The  magazine  writers  were  "tearing  off  copy,"  th« 
painters  were  simply  "slapping  it  down."  One  of  thei4 
told  me  he  "painted  the  real  stuff  right  out  of  life"— - 
dashed  it  off  with  one  hand,  so  to  speak,  while  he  shook  hk ' 
fist  at  the  town  with  the  other.  Everyone  wanted  to  ses  •• 
something  done — and  done  damn  quick — about  this,  thai 
or  the  other. 

My  artist's  eyes  surveyed  this  group  and  twinkled  witK 
amused  surprise.  But  I  could  sit  by  the  hour  and  listen 
to  their  talk.  I  found  it  mighty  refreshing,  after  those 
bills  in  the  hardware  shop,  that  monotonous  martyr  feel 
ing  of  mine  and  those  worries  down  by  the  harbor. 

But  I  felt  the  harbor  always  there,  slowly  closing  in  on 


THE    HARBOR  115 

my  father,  who  looked  older  day  by  day,  slowly  bringing 
things  to  a  crisis.  In  the  garden  behind  our  house  on 
warm  September  evenings  when  these  pigmies  gathered 
to  chatter  reforms,  the  harbor  hooted  at  their  little  plans 
as  it  had  hooted  at  my  own.  One  evening,  I  remember, 
when  the  talk  had  waxed  hot  and  loud  in  favor  of  labor 
unions  and  strikes,  Sue  left  the  group  and  with  a  friend 
strolled  to  the  lower  end  of  the  garden.  There  I  saw 
them  peer  over  the  edge  and  listen  to  the  drunken  stokers 
singing  in  the  barrooms  deep  under  all  these  flower  beds 
and  all  this  adventurous  chatter  of  ours.  I  thought  of  the 
years  I  had  spent  with  Sam — and  Sue,  too,  seemed  to  me 
to  be  having  a  spree.  Poor  kid,  what  a  jolt  she  would  get 
some  day.  She  called  me  "our  dreamer  imported  from 
France."  But  I  was  far  from  dreaming. 

Presently  the  harbor  just  opened  one  of  its  big  eyes  and 
sent  up  by  a  messenger  a  little  grim  reality. 

A  Russian  revolutionist  had  appeared  among  us  with  a 
letter  to  Sue  from  Joe  Kramer.  Joe,  I  found  to  my  sur 
prise,  had  seen  quite  a  little  of  Sue  over  here  while  I  had 
been  in  Paris — and  from  the  various  ships  and  hotels  that 
had  been  his  "home"  of  late,  he  had  written  her  now  and 
then.  Through  him  Sue  had  joined  a  society  known  as 
"The  Friends  of  Russian  Freedom,"  and  Joe  wrote  now 
from  Moscow  urging  her  to  "stir  up  the  crowd  and  lick 
this  fellow  into  shape  to  talk  at  big  meetings  and  raise 
some  cash.  He  has  the  real  goods,"  Joe  added.  "All  he 
needs  is  the  English  language  and  a  few  points  about  mak 
ing  it  yellow.  If  handled  right  he'll  be  a  scream." 

He  was  handled  right  and  he  was  a  scream.  Three 
months  later  he  finished  a  tour  that  had  netted  over  ten 
thousand  dollars.  Now  to  buy  guns  and  ship  them  to 
Russia — where  in  the  awful  poverty  bequeathed  to  them 
by  the  war  with  Japan,  a  bitter  people  was  still  fighting 
hard  to  make  an  end  of  autocracy. 

"I  think  I  can  help  you,  Puss,"  said  Dad. 

I  looked  at  him  with  interest.     I  knew  he  had  been  as 


116  THE    HARBOR 

tickled  as  I  by  these  astonishing  friends  of  hers.  "Revo- 
looters,"  he  called  them.  He  was  a  great  favorite  with  the 
girls. 

"I  once  knew  a  man  in  a  business  way  who  dealt  in 
guns,"  he  explained  to  Sue.  "He  shipped  some  to  Bolivia 
from  my  dock.  I'll  have  him  up  to  meet  your  friend." 

So  this  messenger  from  the  harbor,  a  keen  lean  man  of 
business,  gave  one  hour  of  his  time  to  the  problem  in  which 
the  Russian  dreamer  had  been  absorbed  for  fifteen  years. 
And  the  hour  made  the  fifteen  years  look  decidedly 
dreamy. 

"Guns  for  Russia,  eh  ?"  he  said.  "How'll  you  get  'em 
into  your  country  ?  Where's  your  frontier  weakest  ?  You 
don't  know  ?  Then  I'll  tell  you."  And  the  man  of  busi 
ness  did.  "IsTow  what  kind  of  guns  do  you  want?  You, 
hadn't  thought?  Well,  my  friend,  you  want  Mausers. 
They  happen  to  be  cheap  just  now  in  Vienna.  You  should 
have  looked  into  that  before  you  traipsed  way  over  here. 
You  can  get  'em  there  for  three  twenty  apiece — they 
dropped  three  cents  last  Tuesday." 

The  dreamer  dreamed  hard  and  fast  for  a  moment. 

"Then,"  he  cried  triumphantly,  "wit'  ten  t'ousand  dol- 
lairs  I  can  buy  over  t'ree  t'ousand  guns !" 

The  gunman's  look  was  patient. 

"Don't  you  want  to  shoot  'em  off?"  he  inquired.  "Be 
cause  if  you  do  you'll  need  ammunition.  You  ought  to 
have  a  thousand  rounds,  which  will  come  to  a  little  over 
three  times  the  actual  cost  of  the  guns  themselves.  You 
see  when  you  shoot  off  a  gun  at  an  army  you  want  to  have 
plenty  of  cartridges  or  else  be  ready  to  run  like  hell. 

"On  second  thought,"  he  added,  "I  advise  you  to  give  up 
the  Mausers  and  go  in  for  Springfields  over  here — old  ones 
— you  can  get  'em  cheap.  They're  no  good  at  over  a  mile, 
but  for  the  first  few  months  your  fellahs  will  be  lucky  if 
they  hit  a  man  at  a  hundred  yards.  And  there's  one  good 
point  about  Springfields,  they  make  a  devil  of  a  noise — 
and  that's  all  you  need  for  a  starter,  noise  enough  to  break 


THE   HARBOR  117 

into  headlines  all  over  the  world  as  a  'Brave  Little  Rebel 
Army.'  If  you  can  do  that,  and  the  word  goes  around  on 
the  quiet  that  you're  using  American  rifles — well,  there's 
a  kind  of  a  sentiment  in  our  trade — you'll  find  us  all  be 
hind  you.  We'll  even  lose  money.  We're  a  queer  bunch." 

"But  wait!"  cried  the  Russian.  "Dere  ees  a  trouble! 
Your  tr-reaty  wit'  Russia !  Have  you  not  a  tr-reaty  which 
makes  it  forbidden  to  sell  to  me  guns  ?" 

Again  that  look  of  patience: 

"Yes,  General,  we  have  a  tr-reaty.  But  we'll  ship  your 
guns  as  grand  pianos  to  Naples,  from  there  by  slow  boat 
down  to  Brazil  and  then  up  to  the  Baltic,  where  they'll 
arrive  with  their  pedigrees  lost.  Our  agent  will  be  there 
ahead,  he'll  have  found  a  customhouse  man  he  can  fix,  he'll 
cable  us  where — and  when  those  fifty  pianos  are  landed 
the  said  official  will  open  the  box  marked  twenty-two. 
It'll  take  him  over  an  hour  to  do  it,  the  boards  will  be 
nailed  so  cussedly  tight.  And  he'll  find  a  real  piano  in 
side.  Then  he'll  look  at  the  other  forty-nine  crates  and 
say,  'Oh,  Hell !'  in  Russian.  Then  they'll  go  on  to  wherever 
you  want  'em — and  you'll  revolute.  But  don't  forget  that 
what  you  need  most  is  the  livest  press  agent  you  can  find. 
I've  got  to  go  now.  Think  it  over.  And  if  you  want  to 
do  business  with  me  come  to  my  office  to-morrow  at  ten." 

The  man  of  business  left  us.  And  while  the  dreamer 
talked  like  mad  and  finally  decided  that  as  Mausers  were 
"shoot  farther  guns"  he  had  better  go  to  Vienna,  I 
watched  the  twinkle  in  Dad's  gray  eyes  and  thought  of  the 
cool  contempt  in  his  friend's.  And  from  being  amused  I 
became  rather  sore.  For,  after  all,  this  little  Russian  cuss 
had  risked  his  life  for  fifteen  years  and  expected  to  lose  it 
shortly.  (As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  stood  up  against  a 
wall  and  shot  the  following  April.)  Why  make  him  look 
BO  small  ? 

Was  there  nothing  under  the  heavens  that  this  infernal 
harbor  didn't  know  all  about,  and  "do  business  with"  so 
thoroughly  that  it  could  always  smile  ? 


CHAPTER   V 

As  I  drudged  on  down  there  in  the  warehouse,  my  bit 
terness  became  an  obsession.  I  even  talked  about  it  to  Sue. 

"Oh,  Billy,  you  make  me  tired,"  she  said.  "Here  I've 
taken  the  trouble  to  bring  to  the  house  every  magazine 
writer  I  know.  And  they're  all  ready  to  help  you  break 
in — but  you  won't  write,  you  won't  even  try !" 

"How  do  you  know  I  haven't  tried  ?"  I  retorted  hotly. 
"But  I'm  working  all  day  as  it  is — and  four  nights  a  week 
besides.  And  the  other  three  nights,  when  I  try  to  think 
of  the  kind  of  thing  that  I  could  sell  to  the  magazines — 
well,  I  simply  can't  do  it,  that's  all — it's  not  my  way  of 
writing 1" 

"Then  your  way  is  just -plain  morbid,"  she  said,  "and 
it's  about  time  you  dropped  it."  She  seemed  to  get  a 
sudden  idea.  "I  know  the  person  you  ought  to  meet " 

"Do  you  ?    What's  his  name  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Eleanore  Dillon,"  she  answered.  I  looked  up  at  her 
with  a  start. 

"Eleanore  Dillon  ?    Is  she  still  around  ?" 

I  hadn't  thought  of  that  girl  in  years. 

"She  is — and  she's  just  what  you  need,"  said  Sue,  with 
that  know-it-all  smile  of  hers.  Her  head  was  now  cocked 
a  bit  to  one  side.  "Your  little  friend  of  long  ago,"  she 
added  sympathetically.  I  eyed  Sue  for  a  moment.  I  did 
not  care  at  all  for  her  tone. 

"What  do  I  need  her  for?"  I  asked. 

"To  talk  to  you  of  the  harbor,  of  course — that's  her 
especial  line  these  days." 

118 


THE   HAEBOR  119 

"The  harbor  ?"  I  demanded.    "That  girl  ?" 

"Yes — the  harbor,  that  girl."  Sue  seemed  to  be  having 
quite  a  good  time.  My  jaw  set  tight. 

"What  does  she  do  down  there  ?"  I  asked. 

"She  worships  her  father.  Don't  you  remember?  An 
engineer.  He's  doing  a  big  piece  of  work  on  the  harbor 
axid  Eleanore  is  wrapped  up  in  his  work,  she's  a  beautiful 
case  of  how  a  fond  parent  can  literally  swallow  up  his 
child.  There  used  to  be  nothing  whatever  that  Eleanore 
Dillon  wasn't  going  to  do  in  life.  Don't  you  remember, 
when  she  was  small,  that  little  determined  air  she  had  in 
the  way  she  went  at  every  game?  Well,  she  grew  even 
more  like  that.  From  school  she  went  to  college  and 
worked  herself  to  a  frazzle.  Then  she  broke  down  and 
had  to  drop  out,  and  now  that  she's  strong  again  she's 
changed.  She  used  to  go  in  for  everything.  ISFow  she  goes 
in  for  nothing  at  all  except  her  father  and  his  work.  She 
thinks  we're  all  a  lot  of  young  fools." 

"Oh,  now,  Sue,"  I  put  in  derisively.  "You  people 
fools  ?  How  could  she  ?" 

"You'll  see,"  my  sister  sweetly  replied,  "for  she'll  prob 
ably  think  you're  another.  She  detests  morbid  people, 
they're  not  her  kind.  But  if  she'll  give  you  a  talking  to  it 
may  do  you  a  lot  of  good." 

She  did  give  me  a  talking  to  and  it  did  do  me  a  lot  of 
good,  although  when  I  came  to  think  of  it  I  found  she  had 
barely  talked  at  all. 

She  wasn't  the  sort  who  liked  to  talk,  she  was  just  as 
quiet  as  before.  When  she  arrived  rather  late  one  evening 
and  Sue  brought  her  out  on  the  verandah  into  a  group  of 
those  radical  friends  who  were  a  committee  for  something 
or  other,  after  the  general  greetings  were  over  she  settled 
back  in  a  corner  with  the  air  of  one  who  likes  just  to  listen 
to  people,  no  matter  whether  they're  fools  or  not.  But 
as  I  watched  her  I  decided  she  did  not  consider  these 
people  fools.  That  quiet  smile  that  came  on  her  face 


120  THE    HARBOR 

showed  a  comfortable  curiosity  and  now  and  then  a  gleam 
of  amusement,  but  no  contempt  whatever.  She  seemed  a 
girl  so  well  pleased  with  her  life  that  she  could  be  pleased 
with  the  world  besides  and  keep  her  eyes  open  for  all  there 
was  in  it.  Although  she  was  still  rather  small  and  still 
demurely  feminine,  with  the  same  grave  sweetness  in 
her  eyes,  that  same  enchanting  freshness  about  everything 
she  wore,  she  struck  me  at  once  as  having  changed,  as  hav 
ing  grown  tremendously,  as  having  somehow  filled  hersoJf 
deep  with  a  quiet  abundant  vitality.  "Where  have  yvu 
been,"  I  wondered. 

There  came  a  loud  blast  from  the  harbor.  At  once  I 
saw  her  turn  in  her  chair  and  look  down  to  the  point  below 
where  a  river  boat  was  just  leaving  her  slip,  sweeping 
silently  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  moonlit  water.  My 
curiosity  deepened.  Where  had  she  been,  and  what  was 
she  doing,  what  queer  kind  of  a  girl  was  this?  I  took  a 
seat  beside  her. 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  I  asked.  She  turned  her 
head  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  she  answered.  Her  low  voice  had  a 
frankly  intimate  tone.  "I  did  the  moment  I  saw  you. 
Besides,  Sue  told  me  about  you." 

"She's  been  telling  me  quite  a  lot  about  you." 

"Has  she?    What?" 

"That  you  know  all  about  the  harbor  these  days." 

"Sue's  wonderful,"  Eleanore  murmured.  "She's  so 
sure  her  friends  know  everything." 

"Let's  stick  to  the  harbor." 

"All  right,  let's.  I  know  enough  about  it  to  like  it. 
Sue  says  you  know  enough  to  hate  it.  I  wonder  which  of 
us  knows  more." 

"I  do." 

"How  do  you  know  you  do  ?" 

"Because  I've  been  here  longer,"  I  said.  "I've  hated 
it  for  twenty  odd  years." 

She  looked  at  me  with  interest.    Her  eyes  were  not  at 


THE   HARBOR  121 

all  like  Sue's.  Sue's  eyes  were  always  wrapped  up  in 
herself;  Eleanore's  in  somebody  else.  They  were  as  inti 
mate  as  her  voice. 

"Don't  you  remember  the  evening  when  you  took  me 
down  to  the  docks  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  do — very  well,"  I  said. 

"And  do  vou  mean  to  tell  me  you  didn't  like  the  harbor 
then?" 

"I  do — I  hated  the  harbor  then.  I  was  scared  to  death 
that  Sam  and  his  gang  would  appear  around  the  end  of 
a  car." 

"Who  was  Sam?"  she  asked  me.  "He  sounds  like  a 
very  dreadful  small  boy." 

Soon  she  had  me  telling  her  of  Sam  and  his  gang  and 
the  harbor  of  thrills,  from  the  time  of  old  Belle  and  the 
Condor. 

"I  was  a  toy  piano,"  I  said.  "And  the  harbor  was  a 
giant  who  played  on  me  till  I  rattled  inside.  We  had  a 
big  spree  together." 

"Not  a  very  healthy  spree,  was  it?"  she  said  quietly, 
turning  her  gray-blue  eyes  on  mine.  For  some  reason  we 
suddenly  smiled  at  each  other.  "You're  a  good  deal  like 
your  father — aren't  you?"  she  said.  "The  same  nice 
twinkle  in  your  eyes.  Please  go  on.  What  did  the  harbor 
do  to  you  next  ?" 

I  thought  all  at  once  of  the  August  day  when  she  had 
lain,  a  girl  of  twelve,  in  the  fragrant  meadow  beside  me. 
And  as  then,  so  now,  the  drunken  woman's  image  rose  for 
an  instant  in  my  mind. 

"It  wiped  the  thrills  all  out,"  I  said  abruptly.  I  told 
how  the  place  grew  harsh  and  bare,  how  I  could  always 
feel  it  there  stripping  everything  naked  like  itself,  and 
how  finally  when  later  in  Paris  I  felt  I  had  shaken  it  off 
for  life,  it  had  now  suddenly  jerked  me  back,  let  me  see 
what  my  father  had  really  been,  and  had  then  repeated  its 
same  old  trick,  closing  in  on  his  great  idea  and  making  it 
10ok  like  am  old  man's  hobby,  crowding  him  out  and  hand- 


122  THE    HARBOR 

ing  us  grimly  two  dull  little  jobs — one  to  live  on  and  one 
to  die  on. 

"It's  getting  monotonous,"  I  ended. 

While  I  talked  she  had  been  watching  it,  now  a  bustling 
ferry  crossing,  now  a  tug  with  a  string  of  barges  working 
up  against  the  tide. 

"How  do  you  know  it's  so  bad  for  you  to  be  brought 
back  from  Paris  ?"  she  asked  me,  without  looking  around. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  Paris  ?" 

"Yes — and  I  want  to  go  again.  But  I  don't  believe  it 
will  ever  feel  as  real  to  me  as  this  place  does.  And  I 
shouldn't  think  it  would  to  you.  Because  you  were  born 
here,  weren't  you — and  you've  been  so  close  to  it  most  of 
the  time  that  you're  all  mixed  into  it,  aren't  you?  I 
mean  you've  got  your  roots  here.  Why  don't  you  write 
about  them  for  a  while  ?" 

"What?" 

"Your  roots." 

She  turned  and  again  her  eyes  met  mine,  and  again  for 
some  reason  or  other  we  smiled. 

"All  right,"  I  assented  gravely,  "I'll  buy  a  hoe  and  start 
right  in." 

"That's  it,  hoe  yourself  all  up.  Get  as  far  down  as  you 
can  remember.  Dig  up  Belle  and  Sam,  and  Sue  and  your 
mother  and  father.  Then  take  a  hoe  to  Paris  and  find  out 
why  you  loved  it  so,  and  why  you  hate  the  harbor.  Be 
sure  you  get  all  the  hate  there  is,  it  makee  such  interesting 
reading.  Besides,  it  may  be  just  what  you  need — it  may 
take  the  hate  all  out  of  your  system." 

"Who'll  print  it?"  I  demanded. 

"Oh,  some  magazine,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  think  this  kind  of  thing  would  interest  their 
readers  ?" 

"It  would  interest  me " 

"Thank  you.    I'll  tell  the  editors  that." 

"You'll  do  BO  such  thing,"  she  said  severely,  "You'll 
tell  the  magazine  editors,  please,  that  I'm  only  one  of 


THE    HARBOR  123 

thousands  of  girls  who  are  getting  sick  and  tired  of  the 
happy,  cheery  little  tales  they  print  for  our  special  benefit. 
It's  just  about  time  they  got  over  the  habit  of  thinking 
of  us  as  sweet,  young  things  and  gave  us  some  roots  we 
can  grow  on." 

Another  modern  girl,  I  thought. 

"Do  you,  too,  want  to  vote?"  I  asked  her,  with  a  fine, 
indulgent  irony. 

""Some  day  I  do,"  she  answered.  And  then  she  added 
with  placid  scorn,  "When  I've  learned  all  the  political 
wisdom  that  you  have  to  teach  me."  And  as  if  that  were 
a  good  place  to  stop,  she  rose  from  her  seat. 

"The  others  seem  to  have  left  us,"  she  said.  "I  think 
I'd  better  be  going  home." 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,"  I  cried.  "When  am  I  going  to 
hear  about  you — and  your  side  of  this  dismal  body  of 
water  ?" 

She  looked  back  at  me  serenely. 

"Wait  till  you've  got  yours  all  written  down,"  she  re 
plied.  "You  see  mine  might  only  mix  you  up.  Mine  is 
so  much  pleasanter.  Good  night,"  she  added  softly. 


CHAPTEK   VI 

UNTIL  late  that  night,  and  again  the  next  day  at  my 
desk  down  in  the  warehouse,  my  thoughts  kept  drifting 
back  to  our  talk.  With  a  glow  of  surprise  I  found  I  re 
membered  not  only  every  word  she  had  said,  but  the  tones 
of  her  voice  as  she  said  it,  the  changing  expressions  on  her 
face  and  in  her  smiling  gray-blue  eyes.  Her  picture  rose 
BO  vividly  at  times  it  was  uncanny. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her  ?"  asked  Sue. 

"Mighty  little,"  I  replied.  I  did  not  care  to  discuss  her 
with  Sue,  for  I  had  not  liked  Sue's  tone  at  all. 

But  how  little  I'd  learned  about  Eleanor's  life.  Where 
did  she  live  ?  I  didn't  know.  When  I  had  hinted  at  com 
ing  to  see  her  she  had  smilingly  put  me  off.  What  was 
this  pleasant  harbor  of  hers  ?  "Wait  till  you've  got  yours 
all  written  down,"  she  had  said,  and  had  told  me  nothing 
whatever.  Yes,  I  thought  disgustedly,  I  was  quite  a  smart 
young  man.  Here  I  had  spent  two  years  in  Paris  learning 
how  to  draw  people  out.  What  had  she  let  me  draw  out 
of  her  ?  What  hadn't  I  let  her  draw  out  of  me  ?  I  won 
dered  how  much  I  had  told  that  girl. 

For  some  reason,  in  the  next  few  days,  my  thoughts 
drifted  about  with  astonishing  ease  and  made  prodigious 
journeys.  I  roved  far  back  to  my  childhood,  and  there  the 
most  tempting  incidents  rose,  and  solemn  little  thoughts 
and  terrors,  hopes  and  plans,  some  I  was  proud  of,  some 
mighty  ashamed  of.  Roots,  roots,  up  they  came,  as 
though  they'd  just  been  waiting,  down  there  deep  inside 
of  me,  for  that  girl  and  her  hoeing. 

Presently,  just  to  get  rid  of  them  all,  I  began  writing 
some  of  them  down.  And  again  I  was  surprised  to  find 

124 


THE   HARBOR  125 

that  I  was  in  fine  writing  trim.  The  words  seemed  to 
come  of  themselves  from  my  pen  and  line  themselves  up 
triumphantly  into  scenes  of  amazing  vividness.  At  least 
so  they  looked  to  me.  How  good  it  felt  to  be  at  it  again. 
Often  up  in  my  room  at  night  I  kept  on  working  till  nearly 
dawn.  I  was  getting  on  famously  now. 

And  so  now,  as  was  his  habit,  Joe  Kramer  came  crash 
ing  into  my  life  and  as  usual  put  a  stop  to  my  work. 

Having  just  landed  from  Russia,  he  had  "breezed  over" 
to  our  house,  had  had  a  talk  with  Sue  downstairs  and  had 
then  come  up  to  my  room  to  surprise  me — just  as  I  had  a 
good  firm  grip  on  one  of  my  most  entrancing  roots. 

"Hello,  Bill,"  he  cried.     "What  are  you  up  to  ?" 

"Hello,  J.K.    How  are  you?" 

I  knew  that  I  ought  to  be  genial,  and  for  a  few  moments 
I  did  my  best.  I  went  through  all  the  motions.  I  grabbed 
his  hand,  I  smiled,  I  talked,  I  told  him  I  was  tickled  to 
death,  I  even  tried  pounding  him  on  the  back.  But  it  was 
quite  useless. 

"Kid,"  he  said  with  that  grin  of  his,  "you're  up  to  some 
thing  idealistic  and  don't  want  to  be  disturbed.  But  I'm 
here  and  it  can't  be  helped.  So  out  with  it — what  have 
you  gone  and  done  ?" 

And  he  jerked  my  story  out  of  me. 

"All  right,"  he  declared,  "this  has  got  to  stop !" 

"I  knew  it,"  I  said.  I  had  known  it  the  minute  he  came 
in  the  room. 

"You've  got  to  throw  up  your  ten-dollar  job,  quit  work 
ing  all  night  on  stuff  that  won't  sell,  and  come  on  a  paper 
and  make  some  real  money." 

"I  can't  do  it,"  I  snapped. 

"You  can,"  said  J.  K. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  tried !    I  went  to  a  paper " 

"You'll  go  to  a  dozen  before  I  get  through !" 

"  J.  K.— I  won't  do  it !" 

"Kid— you  will!" 


126  THE   HARBOR 

And  ho  kept  at  me  night  after  night.  He  was  working 
for  a  New  York  paper  now  as  a  special  correspondent.  He 
had  a  talk  with  his  editor  and  got  me  a  chance-  to  go  on  as 
a  "cub"  and  write  about  weddings,  describing  the  costume 
of  the  bride.  At  least  it  was  a  starter,  he  said,  and  would 
lead  to  divorces  later  on,  and  from  there  I  might  be  pro 
moted  to  graft.  He  talked  to  Sue  and  my  father  about  it, 
persuading  them  both  to  take  his  side.  Day  by  day  the 
pressure  increased.  I  set  my  young  jaw  doggedly  and  kept 
on  writing  about  my  roots. 

"Look  here,"  said  Joe  one  evening.  "Your  sister  tells 
me  you're  sore  on  the  harbor.  Then  have  a  look  at  this." 
And  he  showed  me  a  newspaper  clipping  headed,  "Padrone 
System  Under  the  Dumps." 

"Well,  what  about  it  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"What  about  it  ?  My  God !  Here's  a  chance  to  show 
up  the  harbor  on  one  of  its  ugliest,  rottenest  ideas!  A 
dump  is  a  pier  that  sticks  out  in  the  river.  We'll  go  there 
at  night,  get  down  underneath  it  and  look  at  the  kids — 
Dago  child-slaves  working  like  hell.  You  say  that  wed 
dings  are  not  in  your  line — all  right,  here's  just  the  oppo 
site — stuff  that'll  make  your  women  readers  sit  right 
up  and  sob  out  aloud!  I  don't  care  for  tear-jerkers 
myself,"  he  added.  "But  even  tear-jerkers  are  better 
than  Art." 

"All  right,"  I  muttered  savagely,  "let's  go  and  get  a 
tear-jerker  to  write !" 

If  I  must  write  of  this  modern  harbor,  at  least  it  was 
some  satisfaction  to  write  about  one  of  its  ugliest  sides. 

We  went  the  next  night. 

Joe  had  chosen  a  dump  which  jutted  out  from  the  Man 
hattan  side  of  the  river  just  about  opposite  our  house.  A 
huge,  long,  shadowy  pile  of  city  refuse  of  all  kinds,  we 
caught  the  sour  breath  of  it  as  we  drew  near  in  the  dark 
ness.  There  was  not  a  sound  nor  a  light.  We  climbed 
down  onto  a  greenish  beam  that  ran  along  by  the  side  un 
derneath,  about  a  foot  from  the  water,  and  cautiously 


THE    HARBOR  127 

working  our  way  outward  for  a  hundred  yards  or  more,  we 
stopped  abruptly  and  drew  back. 

For  just  before  us  under  the  dump  was  a  cave  with  walls 
of  papers  and  rags.  A  lantern  hung  from  overhead,  swung 
gently  in  the  raw  salt  breeze,  and  by  its  light  we  could  see 
a  half  dozen  swarthy  small  boys.  Five  were  intent  on  a 
game  of  dice,  whispering  fiercely  while  they  played.  Their 
boss  lay  asleep  in  a  corner.  The  sixth,  the  smallest  of  them 
all,  sat  smoking  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  his  knees  drawn 
up  and  his  big  dilated  black  eyes  roving  hungrily  out  over 
the  water.  All  at  once  around  the  end  of  the  pier,  a  dark, 
tall  shadow  like  a  spook  swept  silently  out  before  him.  He 
sprang  back  and  fervently  crossed  himself,  then  grinned 
and  drew  on  his  cigarette  hard.  For  the  shadow  was 
only  a  scow  with  a  derrick.  The  imp  continued  his 
watching. 

"Now,"  said  J.  K.  a  few  minutes  lat^r  back  on  shore, 
"you  want  to  get  their  hours  and  wages.  You  want  to  look 
up  the  fire  law  about  lighted  cigarettes  and  a  lantern " 

"Oh,  damn  your  fire  law,"  I  growled.  "I  want  to  know 
where  that  kid  with  the  cigarette  was  born,  and  what  he 
thinks  of  the  harbor!"  Joe  gave  me  one  of  his  cheerful 
grins. 

"You  might  get  his  views  on  the  tariff,"  he  said. 

"Look  here,  J.  K.,"  I  implored  him;  "go  home.  Go  on 
home  and  leave  me  alone.  It's  all  right,  I'm  glad  you 
brought  me  here — darned  good  of  you,  and  I'll  get  a  story. 
Only  for  God's  sake  leave  me  alone !" 

"Sure,"  said  Joe.  "Only  don't  try  to  talk  to  those  little 
Guineys.  Their  boss  wouldn't  let  'em  say  a  word  and 
you'd  lose  your  chance  of  watching  'em.  Make  it  a  kind 
of  a  mystery  story." 

And  a  mystery  story  I  made  it. 

Where  had  he  been  a  year  ago,  this  imp  who  had  fer 
vently  crossed  himself?  In  Naples,  Rome  or  Venice,  or 
poking  his  toes  into  the  dust  of  a  street  in  some  dull  little 
town  in  the  hills  ?  What  great  condor  of  to-day  had  picked 


128  THE    HARBOR 

him  up  and  dropped  him  here  ?  How  did  it  look  to  him  ? 
What  did  he  feel  ? 

I  came  back  to  the  dump  night  after  night,  and  writing 
blindly  in  the  dark  I  tried  to  jot  down  what  he  saw — 
gigantic  shapes  and  shadows,  some  motionless,  some  rush- 
ing  by  with  their  dim  spectral  little  lights,  and  over  all  the 
great  arch  of  the  Bridge  rearing  over  half  the  sky.  The 
lantern  in  the  cave  behind  threw  a  patch  of  light  on  the 
water  below,  and  across  that  patch  from  under  the  pier 
where  the  water  was  slapping,  slapping,  there  came  an'end- 
less  bobbing  procession — a  whisky  bottle,  a  broken  toy 
horse,  a  bit  of  a  letter,  a  pink  satin  slipper,  a  dirty  white 
glove — things  tossed  out  of  people's  lives.  On  and  on 
they  came.  And  I  knew  there  were  miles  of  black  water 
like  this  all  covered  with  tiny  processions  like  this  moving 
slowly  out  with  the  ebb  tide,  out  from  the  turbulent  city 
toward  the  silent  ocean.  One  night  the  watchman  on  the 
dump  showed  me  a  heavy  paper  bag  with  what  would  have 
been  a  baby  inside.  Where  had  it  come  from  ?  He  didn't 
know.  Tossed  out  of  some  woman's  life,  in  a  day  it  would 
be  far  out  on  the  ocean,  bobbing,  bobbing  with  the  rest. 
Water  from  here  to  Naples,  water  from  here  to  heathen 
lands.  Just  here  a  patch  of  light  from  a  lantern.  That 
imp  from  Italy  looking  down — into  something  immense 
and  dark  and  unknown. 

He  was  having  a  spree  with  the  harbor,  as  I  had  had 
when  as  small  as  he.  I  saw  him  watch  the  older  boys  and 
listen  thrilled  to  their  wonderful  talk — as  once  I,  too,  had 
been  thrilled  by  Sam.  I  watched  him  over  a  game  of  dice, 
quarreling,  scowling,  grabbing  at  pennies,  slapped  by  some 
one,  whimpering,  then  eagerly  getting  back  to  the  game. 
It  was  "craps,"  I  had  played  it  with  Sam  and  the  gang. 
One  night  he  dropped  a  cigarette  still  lighted  into  the  rags 
and  was  given  a  blow  by  his  boss  that  knocked  him  into  a 
corner.  But  presently  he  crawled  cautiously  forth,  and 
again  with  both  hands  hugging  his  knees  he  sat  and 
watched  the  harbor.  What  a  big  spree  for  a  little  boy. 


THE    HARBOR  129 

I  put  my  own  childhood  into  this  imp,  into  him  my  first 
feelings  toward  this  place.  And  so  I  came  again  to  my 
roots.  How  the  memories  rose  up  now — the  fascinations 
and  terrors  that  I,  too,  had  felt  before  something  immense 
and  dark  and  unknown. 

Thank  heaven  J.  K.  had  given  me  up  and  gone  to  Colo 
rado — so  I  was  left  to  work  in  peace.  I  called  my  sketch 
"A  Patch  of  Light,"  and  sent  it  to  a  magazine.  It  came 
back  with  a  note  explaining  that,  while  this  was  a  fine  little 
thing  in  its  way,  its  way  wasn't  theirs,  it  was  neither  an 
article  full  of  facts  nor  a  story  full  of  romance.  In  short, 
I  told  myself  savagely,  it  was  neither  hay  nor  tears !  Again 
it  went  forth  and  again  back  it  came.  Then  Sue  gave  it 
to  one  of  her  writer  friends  who  said  he  knew  just  the 
place  for  it. 

"No,  you  don't,"  I  thought  drearily.  "Nobody  knows — 
in  this  whole  damnable  desolate  land." 

But  Sue's  friend  sold  my  story — for  twenty-two  dollars 
and  fifty  cents !  And  he  said  that  the  editor  wanted  some 
more! 

It  was  curious,  from  my  window  that  night,  what  a  dif 
ferent  harbor  I  saw  below.  Ugly  still  ?  Of  course  it  was. 
But  what  a  rich  mine  of  ugliness  for  the  pen  of  a  rising 
young  author  like  me! 


CHAPTEE   VH 

Now  for  something  bigger.  I  would  have  a  whack  at 
the  place  by  day.  !N"o  mystery  now,  just  ugliness.  I  would 
show  it  up  in  broad  daylight,  bringing  out  every  detail  in 
the  glare.  I  would  do  this  by  comparing  it  to  the  harbor 
of  long  ago,  and  the  snowy  white  sails  of  my  father's 
youth. 

His  youth  was  gone.  A  thick-set  and  gray-headed  old 
figure,  he  bent  over  his  desk  by  my  side,  putting  up  a 
fierce,  silent  fight  for  his  strength,  and  now  slowly  getting 
enough  of  it  back  to  keep  him  at  his  job  as  a  clerk  in  what 
had  been  his  warehouse.  Only  once,  coming  suddenly 
into  the  room,  I  found  him  settled  deep  down  in  his  chair, 
heavy,  inert,  his  cigar  gone  out,  staring  vacantly  out  of 
the  window. 

The  sails  were  gone.  Down  there  at  his  dock,  where 
even  in  days  that  I  could  remember  the  tall  clippers  had 
lain  for  weeks,  I  saw  now  a  German  whaleback.  She  had 
slipped  in  but  three  days  before  and  was  already  snorting 
to  get  away.  She  was  black  and  she  wallowed  deep,  and 
she  had  an  enormous  bulging  belly  into  which  I  descended 
one  day  and  explored  its  metallic  compartments  that 
echoed  to  the  deafening  din  of  some  riveters  at  work  on 
her  ftiies.  Though  short  and  stout,  she  was  nine  thousand 
tons.  Hideous,  she  was  practical,  as  practical  as  a  fac 
tory.  In  her  the  romance  of  the  sea  was  buried  and  choked 
in  smoke  and  steam,  in  grime,  dirt,  noise  and  a  regular 
haste.  One  morning  as  her  din  increased  and  the  black, 
sooty  breath  of  her  came  drifting  in  through  our  window, 
my  father  rose  abruptly  and  slammed  the  window  down. 

"The  damn  sea  hog !"  he  muttered. 

130 


THE    HARBOR  131 

Gone,  too,  were  the  American  sailors.  All  races  of  men 
on  the  earth  but  ours  seemed  gathered  around  this  hog  of 
the  sea.  From  barges  filled  with  her  cargo,  the  stuff  was 
being  heaved  up  on  the  dock  by  a  lot  of  Irish  bargemen. 
Italian  dockers  rolled  it  across  to  this  German  ship,  and  on 
deck  a  Jap  under-officer  was  bossing  a  Coolie  crew.  These 
Coolies  were  dwarfs  with  big  white  teeth  and  stooping, 
round  little  shoulders.  They  had  strange,  nervous  faces, 
long  and  narrow  with  high  cheek  bones  and  no  foreheads 
at  all  to  speak  of.  Their  black  eyes  gleamed.  Back  and 
forth  they  scurried  to  the  sound  of  that  guttural  Japanese 
voice. 

"The  cheapest  sea  labor  there  is,"  growled  Dad.  "Good- 
by  to  Yankee  sailors." 

The  Old  East  with  its  riches  was  no  longer  here.  For 
what  were  these  Coolies  doing?  Handling  silks  and 
spices  ?  Oh,  no.  They  were  hoisting  and  letting  down  into 
the  hold  an  automobile  from  Dayton,  Ohio,  bound  for  ISTew 
South  Wales.  Gone  were  the  figs  and  almonds,  the  in 
digo,  ivory,  tortoise  shells.  Into  the  brand-new  ledgers 
over  which  my  father  worked,  he  was  entering  such  items 
as  barbed  wire,  boilers,  car  wheels  and  gas  engines,  baby 
carriages,  kegs  of  paint.  I  reveled  in  the  commonplace 
stuff,  contrasting  it  vividly  in  my  mind  with  the  starlit 
ocean  roads  it  would  travel,  the  picturesque  places  it 
would  help  spoil. 

I  filled  in  the  scene  with  all  its  details,  the  more  accu 
rate,  glaring  and  real  the  better — the  brand-new  towering 
skyline  risen  of  late  on  Manhattan,  the  new  steel  bridge, 
an  ugly  one  this,  and  all  the  modern  steam  craft,  tugs, 
river  boats,  Sound  steamers,  each  one  of  them  panting  and 
spewing  up  smoke.  I  sat  there  like  a  stenographer  and 
took  down  the  harbor's  dictation,  noting  the  rasping  tones 
of  its  voice,  recording  eagerly  all  its  smells.  And  all  this 
and  more  that  I  gathered,  I  focussed  on  the  sea  hog. 

And  then  toward  the  end  of  a  winter's  day  we  looked 
out  of  our  window  and  saw  her  "sail."  She  sailed  in  a 


132  THE    HARBOR 

nervous,  worrying  haste  to  the  grunts  and  shrieks  of  a  lot 
of  steam  winches.  Up  rattled  her  anchor,  out  she  wad 
dled,  tugs  puffing  their  smoke  and  steam  in  her  face.  She 
didn't  depart.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  hog  departing  ?  She 
just  went.  There  were  no  songs,  no  last  good-byes — ex 
cept  from  a  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves  who  called  from  the 
deck  to  a  man  on  the  pier,  "So  long,  Mac,  see  you  next 
Spring,"  and  then  went  into  the  factory. 

When  the  work  of  the  day  was  over,  I  went  down  into 
the  dock  shed.  My  father's  old  place  was  at  peace  for  a 
time,  the  desecration  done  with.  She  was  empty,  dark  and 
silent.  In  her  long,  inward-sloping  walls  the  eight  wide 
sliding  doors  were  closed.  Only  through  the  dusty  sky 
lights  here  and  there  fell  great  masses  of  soft  light.  Big 
bunches  of  canvas  hung  from  above,  ropes  dangled  out  of 
the  shadows.  And  there  were  huge  rhythmic  creakings 
that  made  you  feel  the  ocean  still  here,  an  old  ocean  un 
der  an  old,  old  dock.  The  place  grew  creepy  with  its  past. 

"Faint,  spicy  odors,"  I  jotted  down,  as  I  stood  there  in 
the  dimness,  "ghosts  of  long  ago — low  echoes  of  old  chan 
ties  sung  by  Yankee  sailors — romance — mystery " 

I  broke  off  writing  and  drew  back  behind  a  crate.  My 
father  had  entered  the  dock  shed  and  was  coming  slowly 
up  the  dock.  Presently  I  saw  him  stop  and  look  into  the 
shadows  around  him.  I  saw  a  frown  come  on  his  face,  I 
saw  his  features  tighten.  So  he  stood  for  some  moments. 
Then  he  turned  and  walked  quickly  out.  A  lump  had 
risen  in  my  throat,  for  I  thought  I  knew  what  he  had  seen. 

"The  Phantom  Ship"  became  my  title.  A  fine  contrast 
to  the  sea  hog,  I  thought.  I  asked  Dad  endless  questions 
at  night  about  the  old  days  not  only  here,  but  all  up  along 
the  coast  of  New  England,  and  hungrily  I  listened  while 
he  glorified  the  rich  life  and  color  of  those  seaport  towns 
now  gray,  those  wharves  now  rotting  and  covered  with 
moss.  He  glorified  the  spacious  homes  of  the  men  who 
had  ordered  their  captains  to  search  the  Far  East  for 
the  rugs  and  the  curtains,  the  chairs  and  the  tables,  the 


THE   HARBOR  133 

dishes,  the  vases,  the  silks  and  the  laces,  the  silver  and 
gold  and  precious  stones  with  which  those  audacious  old 
houses  were  stored.  He  glorified  the  ships  themselves. 
From  the  quarter  decks  of  our  clippers,  those  marvels  of 
cleanliness  and  speed,  he  told  how  those  miraculous  cap 
tains  had  issued  their  orders  to  Yankee  sailors,  brawny, 
deep-chested,  keen-eyed  and  strong-limbed.  He  told  what 
perils  they  had  faced  far  out  on  the  Atlantic — "the  Roar 
ing  Forties"  those  waters  were  called ! 

"Yes,  boy,  in  those  days  ships  had  men!" 

In  my  room  I  eagerly  wrote  it  all  down  and  added  what 
I  myself  could  remember.  Here  from  my  bedroom  win 
dow  I  tried  to  see  what  I  had  seen  as  a  boy,  the  immacu 
late  white  of  the  tall  sails,  the  fresh  blue  and  green  of  the 
dancing  waves.  Oh,  I  was  romancing  finely  those  nights ! 
And  there  came  no  Blessed  Damozel  to  say  to  me  gruffly, 
"Couches-toi.  II  est  tard." 

When  the  sketch  was  completed  at  last  I  gave  it  to  my 
father  to  read  and  then  went  out  for  a  long  walk.  It  was 
nearly  midnight  when  I  returned,  but  he  was  still  read 
ing.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

"Son,"  he  said  very  huskily,  "this  is  a  strong  piece  of 
work !"  His  eyes  were  moist  as  they  moved  rapidly  down 
the  page.  He  looked  up  with  a  jerk.  "Who'll  print  it  ?" 
he  asked. 

"I  wish  I  knew,  Dad " 

I  mailed  it  that  night  to  a  magazine.  In  the  next  two 
weeks  my  father's  suspense  was  even  deeper  than  my  own, 
though  he  tried  hard  to  joke  about  it,  calling  me  "Penden- 
nis."  One  day  in  his  office  chair  he  wheeled  with  a  nervous 
sharpness,  and  I  could  feel  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  envelope 
which  the  postman  had  just  thrown  on  my  desk.  God  help 
me,  it  was  heavy  and  long,  it  had  my  manuscript  inside. 
Dismally  I  searched  for  a  letter.  Still  I  could  feel  those 
anxious  eyes. 

"Hold  on !"  I  cried.  "They've  taken  it !  All  they  want 
me  to  do  is  to  cut  it  down !" 


134  THE   HARBOR 

"Then  do  it !"  My  radiant  father  snarled.  "It  ought  to 
be  cut  to  half  its  length !  That's  the  way  with  beginners, 
a  mass  of  details !  Some  day  maybe  you'll  learn  to  write !" 

I  smiled  happily  back.  He  came  suddenly  over  and 
gripped  my  hand. 

"My  boy,  I'm  glad,  I'm  very  glad !  I'm" — he  cleared 
his  throat  and  went  back  to  his  desk  and  tried  to  scowl 
over  what  he  was  doing. 

"Dad." 

"Huh?" 

"They  say  they'll  give  me  a  hundred  dollars.  Pretty 
good  for  one  month's  work." 

"Huh." 

"And  they  want  me  to  do  some  more  on  the  harbor. 
They  say  it's  a  new  field.  Never  been  touched." 

"Then  touch  it,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Leave  me  alone.  I'm 
busy." 

But  coming  in  late  after  luncheon  that  day,  I  found 
him  reading  the  editor's  letter. 

"Boy,"  he  said  that  evening,  "you  ought  to  read  Thack 
eray  for  style,  and  Washington  Irving,  and  see  what  a 
whippersnapper  you  are.  Work — work !  If  your  mother 
were  only  alive  she  could  help  you !" 

And  just  before  bedtime,  taking  a  bottle  of  beer  with 
my  pipe,  I  caught  his  disapproving  eye. 

"Worst  thing  you  can  put  in  your  stomach,"  he  growled. 
He  said  this  regularly  each  night,  and  added,  "Why  can't 
you  keep  up  your  health  for  your  work  ?" 

His  own  health  had  improved  astonishingly. 

"It's  the  winter  air  that  has  done  it,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MY  work,  as  my  father  saw  it  now,  was  to  write  "strong, 
practical  articles"  presenting  the  respective  merits  of  free 
ships,  ship  subsidies  and  discriminating  tariffs  to  build  up 
our  mercantile  marine. 

But  I  was  growing  tired  these  days  of  my  father's  idea, 
his  miracle  and  his  endless  talk  of  the  past.  On  walks 
along  the  waterfront  he  would  treat  it  all  like  a  grave 
yard.  But  while  he  pointed  out  the  tombs  I  felt  the  swift 
approach  of  Spring.  It  was  March,  and  in  a  crude  way  of 
its  own  the  harbor  was  expressing  the  season — in  warm, 
salty  breezes,  the  odor  of  fish  and  the  smell  of  tar  on  the 
bottoms  of  boats  being  overhauled  for  the  Summer.  Our 
Italian  dockers  sang  at  their  work,  and  one  day  the  dock 
was  a  bright-hued  mass  of  strawberries  and  early  Spring 
flowers  landed  by  a  boat  from  the  South.  Everywhere 
things  seemed  starting — starting  like  myself. 

I  had  given  up  my  warehouse  job,  and  free  at  last  from 
that  tedious  desk  to  which  I  once  thought  I  was  tied  for 
years,  with  two  sketches  sold  and  ideas  for  others,  so  many 
others,  rising  daily  in  my  mind,  I  went  about  watching  the 
life  of  the  port.  Poor  Dad.  He  was  old.  Could  I  help 
being  young  ? 

Without  exactly  meaning  to,  I  drew  away  from  my 
father  to  Sue.  We  felt  ourselves  vividly  young  in  that 
house.  We  quarreled  intensely  over  her  friends  and  were 
pleased  with  ourselves  in  the  process.  We  had  long  talks 
about  ourselves.  Sue  let  me  talk  to  her  by  the  hour  about 
my  work  and  my  ideas,  while  she  sat  and  thought  about 
her  own. 

135 


136  THE   HARBOR 

"If  you're  planning  to  write  up  the  harbor,"  she  said 
sleepily  late  one  night,  "you  ought  to  cruise  around  a  bit 
in  Eleanore  Dillon's  motor  boat." 

I  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Does  that  girl  run  a  motor  boat  ?" 

"Her  father's."  Sue  yawned  and  gave  me  a  curious 
smile.  "I'll  see  if  I  can't  arrange  it,"  she  said.  And 
about  a  week  later  she  told  me,  "Eleanore's  coming  to  take 
us  out  to-night." 

Some  of  Sue's  friends  came  to  supper  that  evening  and 
later  we  all  went  down  to  the  dock.  There  was  no  moon 
but  the  stars  were  out  and  the  night  was  still,  the  slip  was 
dark  and  empty.  Suddenly  with  a  rush  and  a  swirl  a 
motor  boat  rounded  the  end  of  the  pier,  turned  sharply  in 
and  came  shooting  toward  us.  A  boiling  of  water,  she 
seemed  to  rear  back,  then  drifted  unconcernedly  in  to  the 
bottom  of 'the  ladder. 

In  the  small  circle  of  light  down  there  I  saw  Eleanore 
Dillon  smiling  up.  She  sat  at  her  wheel,  a  trim  figure  in 
white — a  white  Jersey,  something  red  at  her  throat  and 
a  soft  white  hat  crushed  a  bit  to  one  side.  Beneath  it  the 
breeze  played  tricks  with  her  hair. 

We  scrambled  down  into  the  cock-pit.  It  was  a  deep, 
cozy  little  place,  with  the  wide  open  doors  of  a  cabin  in 
front,  in  which  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  bunks,  a  table,  a 
tiny  electric  cooking  stove  and  a  shaded  reading  light  over 
the  one  small  easy  chair.  There  were  impudent  curtains 
of  blue  at  the  port  holes.  There  was  a  shelf  of  books  and 
another  of  blue  and  white  cups  and  saucers  and  dishes. 
And  what  was  that  ?  A  monkey  crouching  under  the  table, 
paws  clutching  the  two  enormous  brass  buttons  on  the  gay 
blue  jacket  he  wore,  eyes  watching  us  angrily  as  he  chat 
tered. 

"Buttons,"  commanded  his  mistress,  "come  out  here 
this  minute  and  stop  your  noise.  There's  nothing  for  you 
to  be  peevish  about,  the  water's  like  glass.  When  it's 
rough,"  she  explained,  "he  gets  fearfully  seasick.  Come 


THE    HARBOR  137 

Here  now,  pass  the  cigarettes."  And  this  her  Buttons 
proceeded  to  do — very  grumpily. 

Then  as  a  small,  quiet  hand  pulled  a  lever,  I  felt  a  leap 
of  power  beneath  me,  the  boat  careened  as  she  turned, 
then  righted,  there  was  a  second  pull  on  the  lever,  another 
surging  leap  of  speed,  and  as  we  rushed  out  on  the  river 
now  up  rose  her  bow  higher  and  higher,  a  huge  white 
wave  on  either  side.  The  spray  dashed  in  our  faces. 
Everyone  began  talking  excitedly.  Only  the  Buttons  kept 
his  monkey  eyes  fixed  anxiously  on  his  captain's  face 
while  he  clasped  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

"Oh,  Buttons,  don't  be  such  a  coward,"  she  said.  "I  tell 
you  it's  smooth  and  you  won't  be  sick !  Go  out  there  and 
stop  being  silly!" 

Slowly  and  with  elaborate  caution  the  monkey  crept 
forward  over  the  cabin.  For  a  moment  up  at  the  bow  he 
paused,  a  ridiculous  little  dark-jacketed  figure  between  the 
two  white  crests  of  our  waves.  Then  with  a  spring  he  was 
up  to  his  place  on  the  top  of  the  light,  and  there  with  gay 
gesticulations  -he  greeted  every  vessel  we  passed. 

I  had  taken  a  seat  by  Eleanore's  side.  She  was  driving 
her  boat  with  eyes  straight  ahead.  Now  and  then  she 
would  close  them,  draw  in  a  deep  breath  of  the  rough  salt 
air,  and  smile  contentedly  to  herself.  After  a  time  I  heard 
her  voice,  low  and  intimate  as  before : 

''Finished  up  that  hideous  harbor  of  yours  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered  hungrily,  "I  think  I've  just  begun." 
I  caught  a  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"You'll  be  out  of  your  rut  in  a  moment,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  rut  ?"  I  demanded. 

"The  East  River,  Stupid — wait  and  see." 

From  the  little  East  River  corner  I'd  lived  in,  we  sped 
far  out  on  the  Upper  Bay,  a  rushing  black  speck  on  a  dim 
expanse,  with  dark,  empty  fields  of  water  around  us, 
long,  luminous  paths  stretching  off  to  the  shores,  where  the 
lights  twinkled  low  for  miles  and  miles  and  there  were 
sudden  bursts  of  flame  from  distant  blast  furnace  fires, 


138  THE    HAEBOR 

"Tell  me  what  you've  been  writing  about  this  hideous 
place,"  she  said. 

"Who  said  it  was  hideous  at  night  ?  Of  course  if  you 
wrap  it  all  up  in  the  dark,  so  that  you  can  see  none  of  its 
sea  hogs " 

"What's  a  sea  hog?" 

"A  sea  hog  is  a  wallowing  boat  with  a  long,  black,  heavy 
snout."  And  mustering  all  that  was  left  of  my  hatred 
I  plunged  into  my  picture.  "The  whole  place  is  like  that," 
I  ended.  "Full  of  smoke  and  dirt  and  disorder,  every 
thing  rushing  and  jamming  together.  That's  how  it  looks 
to  me  in  the  daytime !" 

"Are  you  sure  it  does — still  ?" 

"I  am,"  I  answered  firmly.  "And  I'm  going  to  write  it 
just  as  it  looks." 

"Then  look  back  of  you,"  she  suggested. 

Behind  us,  at  the  tip  of  Manhattan,  the  tall  buildings 
had  all  melted  together  into  one  tremendous  mass,  with 
only  a  pin  point  of  light  here  and  there,  a  place  of  shadowy 
turrets  and  walls,  like  some  mediaeval  fortress.  Out  of  it, 
in  contrast  to  its  dimness,  rose  a  garish  tower  of  lights  that 
seemed  to  be  keeping  a  vigilant  watch  over  all  the  dark 
waters,  the  ships  and  the  docks.  The  harbor  of  big  com 
panies. 

"My  father  works  up  in  that  tower,"  she  said.  "He 
can  see  the  whole  harbor  spread  out  below.  But  he  keeps 
coming  down  to  see  it  all  close,  and  I've  steered  him  up 
close  to  everything  in  it.  You've  no  idea  how  much  there 
is,"  She  threw  me  a  glance  of  pitying  scorn.  "There 
are  over  seven  hundred  miles  of  waterfront  in  this  small 
port,  and  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  trudging  around  and 
getting  lost  and  tired  and  cross  and  working  off  your 
grudge  in  your  writing.  You  come  with  me  some  after 
noon  and  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  open  your  eyes." 

"Please  do  it,"  I  said  quickly. 

She  took  me  down  to  the  sea  gate  at  the  end  of  a  warm, 


THE    HARBOR  139 

still,  foggy  day.  There  in  the  deepening  twilight  we 
drifted  without  a  sign  of  a  world  around  us — till  in  from 
th©  ocean  there  came  a  deep  billow,  then  another  and  an 
other,  and  as  our  small  craft  darted  off  to  one  side  a 
gigantic  gray  shadow  loomed  through  the  fog  with  four 
black  towers  of  smoke  overhead,  lights  gleaming  from  a 
thousand  eyes. 

"Another  sea  hog,"  murmured  a  voice. 

"I  said  in  the  daytime,"  I  replied. 

We  went  out  on  another  afternoon  to  watch  the  fisher 
man  fleets  at  their  work  or  scudding  before  a  strong  wind 
home  with  a  great,  round,  radiant  sun  behind.  She 
showed  me  fishers  in  the  air,  lonely  fish  hawks  one  by  one 
flying  in  the  late  afternoon  back  to  their  nests  on  the  At 
lantic  Highlands.  And  far  out  on  the  Lower  Bay  she 
knew  where  to  stir  up  whole  armies  of  gulls,  till  there 
seemed  to  be  thousands  wheeling  in  air  with  the  bright 
sunshine  on  all  .  he  wings.  The  sunshine,  too,  with  the 
help  of  the  breeze,  stole  glinting  deep  into  her  hair.  She 
watched  me  out  of  half -closed  eyes. 

"Is  this  daylight  enough  ?"  she  demanded. 

"This  is  simply  absurd,"  I  answered.  "You  know  very 
well  that  this  harbor  is  ugly  in  places " 

"Only  in  places.    That's  better,"  she  said. 

"In  a  great  many  places,"  I  rejoined.  "Please  take  me 
to  Bayonne  some  day — at  two  p.  m.,"  I  added. 

It  seemed  a  good,  safe,  unmysterious  hour,  and  as  we 
neared  the  place  next  day  my  hopes  mounted  high,  for 
there  was  a  leaden  sky  overhead  and  loathsome  blotches 
and  streaks  of  oil  on  the  gray  water  around  us — while 
ahead  on  the  Jersey  shore,  from  two  chimneys  that  rose 
halfway  to  the  clouds,  poured  two  foul,  sluggish  columns 
of  smoke. 

"Still  New  York  harbor,  I  believe?"  I  inquired  mali 
ciously.  But  Eleanore  was  smiling.  "What's  the  joke  ?" 
I  demanded. 

"The  southwest  wind,"  she  softly  replied.    I  could  feel 


140  THE    HARBOR 

it  coining  as  she  spoke.  As  I  watched  I  saw  it  take  that 
sky  and  tear  jagged  rifts  in  it  for  the  sun,  and  then  as 
those  two  columns  of  smoke  began  twisting  and  writhing 
like  monster  snakes  they  took  on  purple  and  greenish  hues 
and  threw  ghostly  reflections  of  themselves  down  on  the 
oily  water  around  us,  filled  with  blue  and  gold  shimmer- 
ings  now. 

"What  a  strange,  wonderful  purple,"  murmured  a  quiet 
voice  by  my  side. 

Stubbornly  I  resisted  conversion.  I  wanted  more  after 
noons  in  that  boat. 

"Now  it's  blowing  that  oily  odor  our  way,"  I  declared 
in  sudden  annoyance.  "I  no  sooner  get  to  enjoying  my 
self  when  along  comes  one  of  the  smells  of  this  place.  And 
where's  the  beauty  in  them  ?  Can  you  show  me  ?  Here's 
a  place  that  should  be  a  great  storehouse  of  pure  fresh  air 
for  the  city  to  breathe,  and " 

"Oh,  hush  up !"  said  Eleanore. 

But  I  doggedly  found  other  blemishes  here — swamps, 
railroad  yards  and  sooty  tracks  that  filled  the  waterfront 
for  miles  where  there  should  have  been  parks  and  boule 
vards.  At  the  same  time  I  assumed  the  tone  of  one  who 
tries  to  be  fair  and  patient.  Whenever  she  showed  me 
some  new  beauty  in  water  or  sky  I  took  great  pains  to  look 
at  it  well.  When  an  angry  little  squall  of  wind  came 
ruffling  over  the  sunny  waves  in  sweeping  bands  of  deep, 
soft  blues,  I  gazed  and  gazed  at  its  wonder  as  though  I 
could  never  have  enough.  And  so  gazing  I  spied  floating 
there  a  sodden  old  mattress,  a  fleet  of  tin  cans.  And  I  said 
that  it  seemed  an  unhealthy  thing  to  dump  all  our  refuse 
so  close  to  the  city. 

"They  don't!"  she  retorted  indignantly.  "They  take 
it  out  miles  beyond  the  Hook !" 

In  short,  I  considered  myself  mighty  clever.  Day  by 
day  I  prolonged  my  conversion,  holding  obstinately  back — 
while  Eleanore  revealed  to  me  the  miracles  worked  by  the 
sunset  here,  and  by  the  clouds,  the  winds,  the  tides,  the 


THE   HARBOR  141 

very  smoke  and  the  ships  themselves,  all  playing  weird 
tricks  on  each  other.  Slowly  the  crude  glory  of  it  stole 
upon  me  unawares — until  to  my  own  intense  surprise  the 
harbor  now  became  for  me  a  breathing,  heaving,  gleaming 
thing  filled  deep  with  the  rush  and  the  vigor  of  life.  A 
thing  no  longer  sinister,  crushing  down  on  a  man's  old 
age — but  strangely  deeply  stirring. 

"Look  out,  my  friend,"  I  warned  myself.     "This  is  no 
harbor  you're  falling  in  love  with." 


CHAPTER   IX 

ALTHOUGH  at  such  lucid  moments  I  would  sometimes 
go  a-soaring  up  into  the  most  dazzling  dreams,  more  often 
I  would  plunge  in  gloom.  For  Eleanore's  dreams  and 
all  her  thoughts  seemed  centered  on  her  father.  From 
each  corner  of  that  watery  world,  no  matter  how  far 
we  wandered,  the  high  tower  from  which  he  looked  down 
on  it  all  would  suddenly  loom  above  the  horizon.  Over 
the  dreariest  marshes  it  peeped  and  into  all  our  talk  he 
came.  A  marsh  was  a  place  that  he  was  to  transform., 
oily  odors  were  things  he  would  sweep  away.  For  every 
abuse  that  I  could  discover  her  father  was  working  out 
some  cure.  With  a  whole  corps  of  engineers  drafting 
his  dreams  into  practicable  plans,  there  was  no  end  to 
the  things  he  could  do. 

"Here  is  a  girl,"  I  told  myself,  "so  selfishly  wrapped 
up  in  her  father  she  hasn't  a  thought  for  anyone  else. 
She's  using  me  to  boom  his  work,  as  she  has  doubtless 
used  writers  before  me  and  will  use  dozens  more  when 
I'm  gone.  No  doubt  she  would  like  to  have  dozens  of 
me  sitting  right  here  beside  her  now!  It's  not  at  all  a 
romantic  thought,  but  think  how  she  could  use  me  then !" 
And  I  would  glower  at  her. 

But  it  is  a  lonely  desolate  job  to  sit  and  glower  at  a 
1  girl  who  appears  so  placidly  unaware  of  the  fact  that 
you  are  glowering.  And  slowly  emerging  from  my  gloom 
I  would  wonder  about  this  love  that  was  in  her.  At  times 
when  she  talked  she  made  me  feel  small.  My  own  love 
for  my  mother,  how  utterly  selfish  it  had  been.  Here 
was  a  passion  so  deep  and  real  it  made  her  almost  forget 
I  was  there,  asking  questions,  hungrily  watching  her, 
trying  to  learn  about  her  life. 

142 


THE    HARBOR  143 

"While  I  was  in  school,"  she  said,  in  that  low  de 
liberate  voice  of  hers,  "my  father  and  I  went  abroad 
every  summer.  We  tramped  in  the  Alps  for  weeks  at 
a  time,  keeping  way  off  the  beaten  paths  to  watch  the 
work  of  the  Swiss  engineers.  One  of  them  was  a  woman. 
We  saw  the  bridge  she'd  built  over  a  gorge,  and  I  be 
came  deeply  excited.  Until  then  I  had  never  had  any 
idea  that  I  could  go  into  my  father's  work.  But  now 
I  wondered  if  I  could.  That  winter  in  school  I  really 
worked.  I  was  dreadfully  dull  at  mathematics,  but  I 
wouldn't  see  it.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  Cornell 
for  the  course  on  engineering.  I  worked  like  a  slave  for 
two  years  to  get  ready  and  just  succeeded  in  getting  in. 

"Then  toward  the  middle  of  Freshman  year  I  realized 
that  I  was  becoming  a  quite  absurdly  solemn  young  grind. 
There  were  over  a  hundred  girls  in  college  but  I  had 
made  barely  any  friends.  And  so  I  firmly  resolved  to 
be  gay.  I  made  a  regular  business  of  it  and  worked 
my  way  into  clubs  and  dances,  hunting  for  the  girls  I 
liked  and  scheming  to  make  them  like  me  too.  By  May 
I  was  way  behind  in  my  work.  I  tried  to  make  up,  I  be 
gan  cramming  every  night  until  one  or  two  in  the  morn 
ing.  And  I  pas:  d  my  examinations — but  that  summer 
I  broke  down.  My  father  had  to  drop  his  work  and  take 
me  abroad  for  an  operation,  and  by  the  time  we  got  back 
he  had  lost  nearly  six  months  of  his  time.  I  decided 
that  as  an  engineer  I  was  a  dismal  failure.  I'd  much 
better  give  my  father  a  chance. 

"So  when  he  took  up  this  work  in  New  York  I  spent 
all  my  time  on  our  new  apartment.  I  loved  fussing  with 
it,  I  shopped  like  a  bee,  and  this  kept  me  busy  all  Autumn. 
Besides  I  was  going  about  with  Sue.  She  had  managed 
me  long  ago  at  school  and  I  was  glad  to  let  her  now,  for 
I  was  hunting  for  new  ideas.  But  Sue  put  me  on  so 
many  committees  that  by  Spring  my  nerves  were  in  shreds, 
and  again  for  weeks  I  was  flat  on  my  back. 

"One  evening  then — when  my  father  came  home  and 


144  THE    HARBOR 

sat  down  by  my  bedside — it  came  over  me  all  of  a  sud 
den — the  wonderful  quiet  strength  in  his  hand,  in  the 
look  of  his  eyes. 

"  'Where  have  you.  been  ?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'Down  on  the  harbor,'  he  told  me.  Since  eight  in 
the  morning  he'd  been  in  a  launch  exploring  it  all.  I 
shut  my  eyes — my  wretched  eyelids  quivering — and  I 
made  him  describe  the  whole  day's  trip  while  I  tried 
to  see  it  all  in  my  mind.  Soon  I  was  feeling  deliciously 
quiet.  'I'm  going  down  there  too/  I  thought. 

"By  the  next  evening  I  had  the  idea  for  this  boat. 
When  I  told  him  he  was  delighted,  and  we  both  grew 
excited  over  the  plans — which  he  drew  by  my  bed,  I  made 
him  draw  dozens.  At  last  it  was  built  and  lay  at  its 
dock,  and  I  packed  all  I  needed  into  a  trunk  and  we 
came  down  in  a  taxi.  It  was  a  lovely  May  afternoon 
and  we  had  a  beautiful  ride  up  the  Hudson.  And  from 
then  on  through  the  Summer  I  hardly  went  ashore  at 
all,  I  knew  if  I  did  it  would  spoil  it  all. 

"Every  night  we  slept  on  board  in  those  two  cozy 
little  bunks.  I  learned  to  cook  here.  Soon  I  was  able 
to  run  the  boat  and  even  to  help  my  father  a  little.  I 
knew  just  enough  about  his  work  to  go  places  for  him 
and  save  his  time.  I'd  forgotten  I  ever  had  any  nerves, 
for  I  felt  I  belonged  to  something  now  that  got  way 
down  to  the  roots  of  things.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean? 
This  harbor  isn't  like  a  hotel,  or  an  evening  gown  or 
Weber  and  Fields.  I  love  pretty  gowns,  and  my  father 
and  I  wouldn't  miss  Weber  and  Fields  for  worlds.  But 
they're  all  on  top,  this  is  down  at  the  bottom,  it's  one 
of  those  deep  places  that  seem  to  make  the  world  go 
'round.  It's  right  where  the  ocean  bumps  into  the  land. 
You  can  get  your  roots  here,  you  can  feel  you  are  real. 

"You  see  what  my  father  is  doing  is  to  take  this 
whole  harbor  and  study  it  hard — not  just  the  water,  the 
shipping  and  docks,  for  when  he  says  'the  port  of  New 
York'  he  means  all  the  railroads  too — and  he's  studying 


THE    HARBOR  145 

how  they  all  come  in  and  why  it  is  that  everything  has 
become  so  frightfully  snarled.  A  lot  of  big  shipping 
men  are  behind  him,  and  he's  to  draw  up  a  plan  for  it 
all  which  they're  going  to  give  to  the  city  to  use,  to  make 
this  port  what  it's  got  to  be,  the  very  first  in  the  ocean 
world.  It's  one  of  those  slow  tremendous  pieces  of  work, 
it  will  take  years  to  carry  it  out  and  hundreds  of  mil 
lions  of  dollars.  My  father  thinks  there's  hardly  a  chance 
that  he'll  ever  live  to  see  it  all  done.  I  know  ho  will, 
I'm  sure  he  will,  he's  the  kind  of  a  man  who  keeps  him 
self  young.  But  whether  he  really  sees  it  or  not,  or  gets 
any  credit,  he  doesn't  care. 

"That's  the  kind  of  a  person  my  father  is,"  Eleanore 
added  softly. 

"My  father  wants  to  meet  you,"  she  told  me  toward 
the  end  of  June,  at  one  of  those  times  when  she  let  the 
boat  drift  while  we  had  long  absorbing  talks.  "He  has 
read  that  thing  you  wrote  about  the  German  sea  hog, 
and  he  thinks  it's  awfully  well  done." 

"That's  good  of  him,"  I  said  gruffly. 

Somehow  or  other  it  always  makes  me  uncomfortable 
when  people  talk  about  my  work.  When  they  criticize 
I  am  annoyed  and  when  they  praise  I  am  uneasy.  What 
do  they  know  about  it  ?  They  spent  an  hour  reading 
what  it  took  me  weeks  to  write.  They  don't  know  what 
I  tried  to  do,  nor  do  they  care,  they  haven't  time.  I 
never  feel  so  cut  off  from  people,  so  utterly  alone  in 
the  world,  as  when  some  benevolent  person  says,  "I  liked 
that  little  story  of  yours."  Instantly  I  shut  up  like  a 
clam. 

"I  liked  it  too,"  said  Eleanore. 

"Did  you?"  I  asked  delightedly.  Far  from  retiring 
into  my  shell,  I  wanted  at  once  to  open  up  and  make  her 
feel  how  much  I  had  missed  in  that  crude  effort.  Soon 
she  had  me  talking  about  it.  And  while  I  talked  on 
eagerly,  I  tried  to  guess  from  her  questions  whether 


146  THE    HARBOR 

she'd  read  it  more  than  once.  Finally  I  guessed  she 
had.  And,  glancing  at  her  now  and  then,  I  wondered 
how  much  she  could  ever  know  about  me  or  I  about  her 
— really  know.  And  the  intimacy  I  saw  ahead  loomed 
radiant  and  boundless.  I  strained  every  nerve  to  show 
her  myself,  to  show  her  the  very  best  of  myself. 

But  then  I  heard  her  ask  me, 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  talk  to  my  father  ?" 

Here  was  a  fine  end  to  it  all. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered  gloomily.  I  could  see  al 
ready  those  engineer  eyes  moving  amusedly  down  my 
pages.  I  could  see  her  watching  his  face  and  getting  to 
feel  as  he  did  about  me.  "What  good  would  it  do?"  I 
added. 

"What  good  would  it  do  ?"  Her  sharply  offended  tone 
brought  me  back  with  a  jerk  to  try  to  explain. 

"Don't  you  see  what  I  mean  ?"  I  asked  eagerly.  "Why 
should  a  man  as  busy  as  he  is  waste  his  time  on  a  kid  like 
me?  After  all  that  you've  told  me  about  him,  I  feel 
sometimes  as  though  all  the  writers  on  earth  don't  count 
any  more,  because  all  the  really  big  things  are  being 
done  by  men  like  your  father." 

"That's  much  better,"  said  Eleanore.  "Only  of  course 
it  isn't  true.  If  you  poor  little  writers  want  to  get  big 
and  really  count,"  she  went  on  serenely,  "all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  write  about  my  father." 

"I'll  begin  the  minute  you  say  so,"  I  told  her. 

"Then  it's  arranged,"  said  my  companion,  with  an 
exceedingly  comfortable  sigh.  "We've  taken  a  cottage  up 
on  the  Sound  for  the  summer,"  she  continued.  "And 
we're  moving  up  to-morrow.  Suppose  you  come  up  over 
Sunday." 

"Thanks.     I'd  love  to,"  I  replied. 

"So  she's  to  be  away  for  months,"  I  added  dismally 
to  myself.  "No  more  of  these  long  afternoons." 


CHAPTEE   X 

Ox  the  following  Saturday,  when  I  met  her  boat  at 
an  East  River  dock,  at  once  I  felt  a  difference.  We  were 
waiting  for  her  father.  The  moments  dragged  and  I 
grew  glum,  try  as  I  would  to  be  pleasant. 

"Here  he  is,"  she  said  at  last. 

Tall,  rather  lank  and  loosely  clothed,  Dillon  was  com 
ing  down  the  pier  in  easy  leisurely  fashion,  talking  to 
a  man  by  his  side.  His  face  lighted  up  when  he  saw  us. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  low  but  it  had  a  peculiar  carrying  quality. 
His  rugged  face  was  deeply  lined,  and  I  noticed  a  lit 
tle  gray  in  his  hair.  He  was  smiling  straight  down  into 
the  eyes  of  his  companion,  a  much  younger  man,  thin 
and  poorly  dressed,  whose  face  looked  drawn  and  tired. 

"When  I  was  your  age,"  I  heard  Dillon  remark,  "I 
got  into  just  the  same  kind  of  a  snarl."  And  he  began 
telling  about  it.  A  frightfully  technical  story  it  was, 
full  of  engineer  slang  that  was  Greek  to  me,  but  I  saw 
tho  younger  man  listen  absorbed,  his  thin  lips  parting 
in  a  smile.  I  saw  him  come  out  from  under  his  wor 
ries,  I  saw  his  chief  watching  him,  pulling  him  out. 

"All  right,  Jim,"  he  ended.     "See  what  you  can  do." 

"Say,  Chief,  just  you  forget  this,  will  you  ?"  the  other 
said  intensely.  "Don't  give  it  a  thought.  It's  go'n'  to 
be  done!" 

"It's  forgotten." 

Another  easy  smile  at  his  man,  and  then  Eleanore's 
father  turned  to  us.  I  could  feel  him  casually  take 
me  in. 

"The  thing  I  liked  most  in  that  sketch  of  yours,"  he 
was  saying  a  few  minutes  later,  when  our  boat  was  on 

147 


148  THE    HARBOR 

her  course,  "was  the  way  you  listed  that  Dutchman's 
cargo.  'One  baby  carriage — to  Lahore.'  A  very  large 
picture  in  five  little  words.  I  can  see  that  Hindu  baby 
now — being  wheeled  in  its  carriage  to  Crocodile  Park 
and  wondering  where  the  devil  this  queer  new  wagon  came 
from.  I've  been  nosing  around  these  docks  for  years, 
but  I  missed  that  part  of  'em  right  along — that  human 
part — till  you  came  along  with  your  neat  writer's  trick. 
'One  baby  carriage — to  Lahore.'  You  ought  to  be  proud, 
young  man,  at  your  age  to  have  written  one  sentence  so 
long  that  it  goes  half  way  around  the  world." 

As  he  talked  in  that  half  bantering  tone  I  tried  to  feel 
cross,  but  it  wouldn't  do.  That  low  voice  and  those 
gray  eyes  were  not  making  fun  of  me,  they  were  making 
friends  with  me,  they  were  so  kindly,  curious,  so  open 
and  sincere.  Soon  he  had  lighted  a  cigar  and  was  telling 
Eleanore  gravely  just  how  she  ought  to  run  her  boat. 

"Why  be  so  busy  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  you  be  quiet !"  she  replied,  as  she  sharply  spun 
her  wheel.  Like  an  automobile  in  a  crowded  street  our 
craft  was  lurching  its  way  in  short  dashes  in  and  out 
of  the  rush  hour  traffic.  The  narrow  East  River  was 
black  with  boats.  Ferries,  tugs  and  steamers  seemed 
to  be  coming  at  us  from  every  side.  Now  with  a  leap 
we  would  be  off,  then  abruptly  churning  the  water  behind 
us  we  would  hold  back  drifting,  watching  our  chance 
for  another  rush.  Eleanore's  face  was  glowing  now,  her 
hat  was  off,  her  neck  was  tense — and  her  blue-gray  eyes, 
wide  open,  fixed  on  the  chaos  ahead,  were  shining  with 
excitement.  Now  and  then  a  long  curling  wisp  of  her 
hair  would  get  in  her  eyes  and  savagely  she  would  blow 
it  back.  And  her  lank  quiet  father  puffed  his  cigar,  with 
his  gray  eyes  restfully  on  her.  "The  serenity  of  her," 
he  murmured  to  me. 

"Oh,  now,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently,  as  we  careened 
to  starboard,  "that  was  a  slip.  I  can't  say  I  would  have 
done  it  like  that." 


THE    HARBOK  149 

"Have  you  ever  run  a  boat  in  your  life?"  came  back 
the  fierce  rejoinder. 

"~No}"  said  Dillon  calmly,  "I  can't  exactly  say  I  have. 
Still" — he-  relapsed  and  enjoyed  his  cigar. 

Just  a  short  time  after  this,  we  had  the  only  ugly  mo 
ment  that  I  had  been  through  in  all  our  rides.  A  huge 
Sound  steamer  was  ahead.  Dashing  close  along  under 
her  port,  we  carne  suddenly  out  before  her  and  met  a 
tug  whose  fool  of  a  captain  had  made  a  rush  to  cross  her 
bow.  It  was  one  of  those  sickening  instants  when  you 
see  nothing  at  all  to  do.  But  Eleanore  saw.  A  quick 
jerk  on  her  lever,  a  swift  spinning  of  her  wheel,  and  with 
a  leap  we  were  right  under  the  steamer's  bow.  It  missed 
our  stern  by  a  foot  as  it  passed  and  then  we  were  safe 
on  the  other  side.  She  made  a  low  sound,  in  a  moment 
her  face  went  deathly  white,  her  eyes  shut  and  she  nearly 
let  go  the  wheel.  But  then,  her  slight  form  tightening, 
slowly  opening  her  eyes  she  turned  toward  her  father. 

"Xow?"  he  asked  very  softly.  And  there  passed  a 
look  between  them. 

"All  right,"  she  breathed,  and  turned  back  to  her  wheel. 
And  for  some  time  very  little  was  said. 

But  I  understood  her  love  for  him  now.  These  two 
were  such  companions  as  I  had  never  seen  before.  And 
though  I  myself  felt  quite  out  of  it  all,  this  did  not  bother 
me  in  the  least.  For  watching  her  father  and  feeling 
the  abounding  reserve  of  force  deep  under  his  quiet,  I 
told  myself  that  here  was  a  big  man,  the  first  really  big 
one  I'd  ever  come  close  to.  And  I  was  so  eager  to  know 
him  and  see  just  what  he  was  like  inside,  that  I  had  no 
room  for  myself  or  his  daughter — because  I  wfntfcd  to 
write  him  up.  What  a  weird,  curious  feeling  it  is,  this 
passion  for  writing  up  people  you  meet. 

On  the  remainder  of  the  ride,  and  at  supper  that  night 
on  the  porch  of  their  cottage,  a  little  house  perched  on 
a  rocky  point  directly  overlooking  the  water,  I  did  my 
best  to  draw  him  out,  and  Eleanore  seemed  quite  ready 


150  THE    HARBOR 

to  help  me.  And  later,  when  he  went  inside  to  do  some 
work,  I  went  on  with  the  same  eagerness,  obliterating  my 
own  small  self,  exploring  this  feeling  of  hers  for  him 
and  his  dream  of  a  future  harbor. 

Soon  she  was  doing  all  the  talking,  her  voice  growing 
lower  and  more  intense  as  she  tried  to  make  me  foel 
all  he  meant  when  he  said,  "It's  going  to  be  the  first 
port  in  the  world."  She  told  how  up  in  his  tower  he 
made  you  see  the  commerce  of  this  whole  mighty  world 
of  peace  converging  slowly  on  this  port.  She  told  of 
the  night  two  years  before  when  he  had  come  home  "all 
shaken  and  queer"  and  had  said  to  her  huskily,  "Elea- 
nore,  child,  at  last  it's  sure.  There's  to  be  a  Panama 
Canal."  Of  other  nights  when  he  didn't  come  home  and 
at  last  she  went  down  to  his  office  to  fetch  him  and  found 
him  at  midnight  there  with  his  men,  "all  working  like 
mad  and  gay  as  larks!" 

"When  it  comes  to  millions  of  dollars  for  his  work," 
she  said,  "he's  so  very  keen  that  he  makes  you  feel  like 
a  little  child.  But  when  it's  merely  a  question  of  dollars 
for  himself  to  live  on,  he's  a  perfect  baby.  He  won't 
look  at  a  bill,  he  always  turns  them  over  to  me.  He 
won't  enter  a  shop,  he  won't  go  to  a  tailor.  One  ready- 
made  clothing  store  has  his  measure  and  twice  a  year 
I  order  his  clothes  and  then  have  a  fight  to  get  him  to 
wear  them.  He  never  knows  what  he  eats  except  steak. 
One  night  when  we  had  been  having  steak  six  evenings 
in  succession  I  tried  chicken  for  a  change.  At  first  he 
didn't  know  what  was  wrong.  Every  now  and  then  he 
would  seem  to  notice  something.  'What's  the  matter 
with  me?'  I  could  see  he  was  asking.  Then  all  at  once 
he  had  it.  'My  dear,'  he  said,  very  coaxingly,  'could  we 
have  a  nice  juicy  porterhouse  steak  for  supper  to-morrow 
evening  ?' ' 

From  these  and  many  other  details  slowly  I  got  the 
feel  of  my  man.  Closer,  more  intimate  he  grew.  All 
the  work  I  had  done  in  Paris,  questioning,  drawing  out 


THE    HARBOR  151 

my  friends  until  I  could  feel  their  inner  selves  coming 
out  of  them  into  me,  was  counting  now.  I  had  never  done 
so  well  before,  I  was  sliding  my  questions  in  just  right, 
very  cautiously  turning  her  memory  this  way  and  that 
on  her  father's  life,  watching  her  grow  more  and  more 
unaware  of  my  presence  beside  her,  although  now  I  had 
her  bending  toward  me,  eagerly,  close. 

"And  she  thinks  she's  doing  it  all  by  herself,"  I  thought 
exultingly. 

But  as  there  came  a  pause  in  our  talk,  she  turned 
slightly  in  her  seat  and  glanced  in  through  the  window 
into  the  lighted  room  behind.  And  instantly  her  expres 
sion  changed.  A  swift  look  of  surprise,  a  puzzled  frown 
and  a  moment  of  hard  thinking — and  then  with  a  mur 
mured  excuse  she  rose  and  went  away  quickly  into  the 
house.  In  the  meantime  I  had  followed  her  look.  Sit 
ting  close  by  the  lamp,  in  the  room  inside,  Dillon  was 
staring  straight  at  this  spot  where  I  was  invisible  in  the 
dark.  And  he  looked  old — and  rigid,  as  though  he'd 
been  staring  like  that  for  some  time.  I  caught  just  a 
glimpse.  Then  he  heard  her  step  and  turned  hastily  back 
to  his  work.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  after  twelve. 

"And  he  never  knew  it  was  all  about  him,"  I  said  to 
myself  disgustedly.  "I  hope  this  doesn't  spoil  it  all." 

But  that  is  precisely  what  it  did.  The  next  morning 
she  was  coolly  polite  and  Dillon  determinedly  genial.  I 
could  feel  a  silent  struggle  between  them  as  to  what 
should  be  done  with  me.  She  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me, 
he  wanted  to  keep  us  together.  Gone  was  all  his  quiet 
strength,  in  its  place  was  an  anxious  friendliness.  He 
made  me  tell  him  what  I  was  writing.  He  said  he  was 
glad  that  his  press  agent  daughter  had  taken  me  'round 
and  opened  my  eyes.  And  as  soon  as  she  got  through 
with  me  he  himself  would  do  all  he  could. 

"I'm  through  with  him,"  said  Eleanore  cheerfully. 
"I've  shown  him  all  I  possibly  can.  What  you  need 


152  THE    HARBOR 

now,"  she  added,  turning  to  me  in  her  old  easy  manner, 
"is  to  watch  the  harbor  all  by  yourself  and  get  your  own 
feelings  about  it.  You  might  begin  at  the  North  River 
docks." 

I  spent  a  wretched  afternoon.  All  my  plans  for  my 
work  and  my  life  assumed  the  most  gray  and  desolate 
hues.  Eleanore  was  taking  a  nap.  At  last  she  came  down 
and  gave  me  some  tea. 

"Hay  I  come  out  and  see  you  now  and  then  ?"  I  asked 
her  very  humbly.  "It  would  help  me  so  much  to  talk 
over  my  work." 

"No,"  she  answered  kindly,  "I  think  you'd  better  not." 

"Why  not?"  I  blurted.     "What  have  I  done?" 

She  hesitated,  then  looked  at  me  squarely. 

"You've  made  my  absurd  young  father,"  she  said, 
"think  that  ho  is  no  longer  young." 

I  lost  just  a  moment  in  admiration.  There  wasn't  one 
girl  in  a  hundred  who  would  have  come  out  with  it  like 
that.  Then  I  seized  my  chance. 

"Why,  it's  perfectly  idiotic,"  I  cried.  "Here's  a  man 
so  big  he's  a  giant  beside  me,  so  full  of  some  queer  mag 
netic  force  that  on  the  way  up  here  in  the  boat  he  made 
me  forget  that  I  was  there.  I  forgot  that  you  were  there," 
I  threw  in,  and  I  caught  just  the  sign  of  a  gleam  in  her 
eyes.  "No  longer  young  ?"  I  continued.  "That  man  will 
be  young  when  you  and  I  are  blinking  in  our  dull  old 
age !  He's  the  biggest  man  I  ever  met !  And  I  want  to 
know  him,  I  want  to  know  how  he  thinks  and  feels,  I  want 
that  more  than  anything  else!  And  now  you  come  be 
tween  us!" 

"Are  you  real?"  asked  Eleanore.  I  looked  back  un 
flinchingly. 

"Just  you  try  me,"  I  retorted. 

"No,"  she  replied  with  a  quiet  smile. 

She  said  good-by  to  me  that  night. 

•  ••••• 

The  next  morning  at  seven  o'clock  I  met  her  father 


THE    HARBOR  153 

down  at  the  boat.  We  had  a  quick  swim  together  and 
then  climbed  on  board.  And  the  next  minute,  with  a 
sober  old  seaman  called  "Captain  Arty"  at  the  wheel,  the 
boat  was  speeding  for  New  York  while  we  dressed  and 
cooked  and  breakfasted. 

"This  was  Eleanore's  idea,"  Dillon  said.  "It  gets  me 
to  town  by  nine  o'clock  and  takes  me  back  each  day  at 
five.  So  I  hardly  miss  a  night  at  home.  .  .  .  Did  she 
ever  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "about  the  first  week  she 
spent  in  this  boat?" 

"She  said  it  was  a  wonderful  time." 

"It  was  a  nightmare,"  Dillon  said.  I  looked  at  him 
quickly : 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Her  fight  for  her  strength.  She  looked  like  a  ghost 
— with  a  stiff  upper  lip.  She  fainted  twice.  But  she 
wouldn't  give  up.  She  said  she  knew  she  could  do  it  if 
I'd  only  let  her  stick  it  out.  She  has  quite  a  will,  that 
daughter  of  mine,"  he  added  quietly. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  "that  idea  of  hers  that  you 
tackle  the  ISTorth  River  piers  isn't  bad.  Why  don't  you 
put  in  the  whole  Summer  there,  watching  the  big  liners  ? 
I  won't  ask  you  to  come  to  my  office  now,  for  our  work 
is  still  in  that  early  stage  where  we  don't  want  any  pub 
licity."  I  could  feel  his  casual  glance,  and  I  wondered 
whether  he  noticed  my  sharp  disappointment.  "When 
we  are  ready,"  he  resumed,  "we're  sure  to  be  flooded  with 
writers.  I  hope  there'll  be  one  man  in  the  lot  who'll 
stick  to  the  work  for  a  year  or  more,  a  man  with  a  kind 
of  a  passion  in  him  for  the  thing  we're  trying  to  do. 
There's  nothing  we  wouldn't  do  for  that  man.  I  hope 
he's  going  to  be  you." 

At  once  a  vision  opened  of  work  with  Eleanore's  father, 
of  long  talks  with  Eleanore. 

"I'll  try  to  get  ready  for  it,"  I  said. 

"You've  made  a  fine  start,"  he  continued,  "and  I  think 
you're  going  to  make  good.  But  first  let's  see  what  you'll 


154  THE    HARBOR 

X 

do  by  yourself.  Get  your  own  view  of  this  place  as  it  is 
to-day  before  we  talk  about  plans  for  to-morrow.  And 
don't  hurry.  Take  your  time." 

As  he  said  this  quietly,  I  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact 
that  we  were  tearing  down  the  river  at  a  perfectly  gor 
geous  speed.  The  river  was  crowding  with  traffic  ahead, 
all  was  a  rushing  chaos  of  life  and  we  were  rushing 
worst  of  all.  And  yet  we  did  not  seem  to  hurry.  Old 
Captain  Arty  sat  at  the  wheel  with  the  most  resigned 
patient  look  in  his  eyes.  And  drawing  lazily  on  his  cigar 
Dillon  was  watching  a  new  line  of  wharves. 

"You  know  I've  found,"  he  was  saying,  "the  only  way 
to  live  in  this  age  and  get  any  pleasure  out  of  life  is  to 
always  take  more  time  than  you  need  for  every  job  you 
tackle.  I'm  taking  at  least  seven  years  to  this  job.  I 
might  possibly  do  it  as  well  in  five,  but  I'd  miss  half  the 
fun  of  it  all,  I'd  be  glaring  at  separate  parts  of  it,  each 
one  as  it  came  along,  and  I'd  never  have  time  to  see  it 
full  size  and  let  it  carry  me  'round  the  world — to  that 
baby  carriage,  for  instance,  over  in  Lahore." 

We  were  rounding  the  Battery  now.  And  in  that 
sparkling  morning  light,  with  billowy  waves  of  sea  green 
all  around  us,  sudden  snowy  clouds  of  spray,  we  watched 
for  a  moment  the  skyscraper  group,  the  homes  of  the 
Big  Companies.  The  sunshine  was  reflected  from  thou 
sands  of  dazzling  window  eyes,  little  streamers  of  steam 
were  flung  out  gaily  overhead,  streets  suddenly  opened 
to  our  view,  narrow  cuts  revealing  the  depths  below.  And 
there  came  to  our  ears  a  deep  humming. 

"That's  the  brains  of  it  all,"  said  Dillon.  "In  all 
you'll  see  while  exploring  the  wharves  you'll  find  some 
string  that  leads  back  here.  And  you  don't  want  to  let 
that  worry  you.  Let  the  muckrakers  worry  and  plan 
all  they  please  for  a  sea-gate  and  a  nation  that's  to  run 
with  its  brains  removed.  You  want  to  remember  it  can't 
be  done.  You  want  to  look  harder  and  harder — until 
you  find  out  for  yourself  that  there  are  men  up  there 


THE    HARBOR  155 

on  Wall  Street  without  whose  brains  no  big  thing  can  be 
done  in  this  country.  I'm.  working  under  their  orders 
and  some  day  I  hope  you'll  be  doing  the  same.  For  they 
don't  need  less  publicity  but  more." 

He  left  me  at  the  Battery,  and  as  I  stood  looking 
after  him  I  found  myself  feeling  somewhat  dazed.  A 
question  flashed  into  my  mind.  What  would  Joe  Kramer 
say  to  this  ?  I  remembered  what  he  had  said  to  me  once : 
"Tell  Wall  Street  to  get  off  the  roof."  Well,  that  was 
his  view.  Here  was  another.  And  this  man  was  cer 
tainly  just  as  sincere  and  decidedly  more  wise  and  sane, 
altogether  a  larger  size. 

Besides,  I  was  in  love  with  his  daughter. 


CHAPTER   XI 

ON  the  Manhattan  side  of  the  North  River,  from 
Twenty-third  Street  down  for  a  mile  there  stretches  a 
deafening  region  of  cobblestones  and  asphalt  over  which 
trucks  by  thousands  go  clattering  each  day.  There  are 
long  lines  of  freight  cars  here  and  snorting  locomotives. 
Along  the  shore  side  are  many  saloons,  a  few  cheap  de 
cent  little  hotels  and  some  that  are  far  from  decent.  And 
along  the  water  side  is  a  solid  line  of  docksheds.  Their 
front  is  one  unbroken  wall  of  sheet  iron  and  concrete. 

I  came  up  against  this  wall.  Over  the  top  I  could 
see  here  and  there  the  great  round  funnels  of  the  ships, 
but  at  every  passenger  doorway  and  at  every  wide  freight 
entrance  I  found  a  sign,  "No  Visitors  Admitted,"  and 
Tinder  the  sign  a  watchman  who  would  ungraciously  take 
a  cigar  and  then  go  right  on  being  a  watchman.  There 
seemed  no  way  to  get  inside.  The  old-fashioned  mystery 
of  the  sea  was  replaced  by  the  inscrutability  of  what 
some  muckrakers  called  "The  Pool." 

"Don't  hurry,"  Eleanore's  father  had  said.  All  very 
well,  but  I  needed  money.  While  I  had  been  making  with 
Eleanore  those  long  and  delightful  explorations  of  the 
harbor  and  ourselves,  at  home  my  father's  bank  account 
had  been  steadily  dwindling,  and  all  that  I  had  been  able 
to  make  had  gone  into  expenses. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Sue,  alone  with  me 
that  evening.  "The  butcher  says  he  won't  wait  any  longer. 
He  has  simply  got  to  be  paid  this  week." 

'Til  aee  what  I  can  do,"  I  said. 

I  came  back  to  my  new  hunting  ground  and  all  night 

156 


THE   HARBOR  157 

long  I  prowled  about.  I  sipped  large  schooners  of  beer 
at  bars,  listening  to  the  burly  dockers  crowded  close 
around  me.  I  watched  the  waterfront,  empty  and  still, 
with  acres  of  spectral  wagons  and  trucks  and  here  and 
there  a  lantern.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  a  broken  old  bum 
who  lay  on  his  back  in  an  empty  truck  looking  up  at  the 
stars  and  spun  me  yarns  of  his  life  as  a  cook  on  ships  j 
all  up  and  down  the  world.  Now  and  again  in  the  small  ' 
Wee  hours  I  met  hurrying  groups  of  men,  women  and 
children  poorly  clad,  and  following  them  to  one  of  the 
piers  I  heard  the  sleepy  watchman  growl,  "Steerage  pas 
sengers  over  there."  I  saw  the  dawn  break  slowly  and 
everything  around  me  grow  bluish  and  unreal.  I  watched 
the  teamsters  come  tramping  along  leading  horses,  and 
harness  them  to  the  trucks.  I  heard  the  first  clatter  of 
the  day.  I  saw  the  figures  of  dockers  appear,  more  and 
more,  I  saw  some  of  them  drift  to  the  docks.  Soon  there 
were  crowds  of  thousands,  and  as  stevedores  there  began 
bawling  out  names,  gang  after  gang  of  men  stepped  for 
ward,  until  at  last  the  chosen  throngs  went  marching 
in  past  the  timekeepers.  Hungrily  I  peered  after  them 
up  the  long  cavernous  docksheds.  "No  Visitors  Ad 
mitted." 

Then  I  went  into  a  lunchroom  for  ham  and  eggs  and 
a  huge  cup  of  coffee.  I  ate  an  enormous  breakfast.  On 
the  floor  beside  me  a  cross  and  weary  looking  old  woman 
was  scrubbing  the  dirty  oil  cloth  there.  But  I  myself 
felt  no  weariness.  While  all  was  still  vivid  and  fresh  in 
my  mind,  sitting  there  I  wrote  down  what  I  had  seen.  A 
magazine  editor  said  it  would  do.  And  so  we  paid  the 
butcher. 

The  same  editor  gave  me  a  sweeping  letter  of  introduc 
tion  to  all  ocean  liners.  This  I  showed  to  a  dock  watch 
man,  who  directed  me  upstairs.  In  the  office  above  I 
showed  it  to  a  clerk,  who  directed  me  to  the  dock  super 
intendent,  who  read  it  and  told  me  to  go  downtown.  I 
recalled  what  Dillon  had  said  about  strings.  Here  was 


158  THE    HARBOR 

string  number  one,  I  reflected,  and  I  followed  it  down 
Manhattan  into  the  tall  buildings,  only  to  be  asked  down 
there  just  what  it  was  I  wanted  to  know. 

"I  don't  want  to  know  anything,"  I  replied.  "I  just 
want  permission  to  watch  the  work." 

"We  can't  allow  that,"  was  the  answer  of  this  harbor 
of  big  companies. 

At  every  pier  that  I  approached  I  received  about  the 
same  reply.  At  home  Sue  spoke  of  other  bills.  And  now 
that  I  was  in  trouble,  hard  pressed  for  money  and  grop 
ing  my  way  about  alone,  I  found  myself  missing  Eleanore 
to  a  most  desperate  degree.  Her  face,  her  smiling  blue- 
gray  eyes,  kept  rising  in  my  mind,  sometimes  with  memo 
ries  and  hopes  that  permeated  my  whole  view  both  of 
the  harbor  and  my  work  with  a  warm  glad  expectant 
glow,  but  more  often  with  no  feeling  at  all  but  one  of 
sickening  emptiness.  She  was  not  here.  The  only  way 
to  get  back  to  her  was  to  make  good  with  her  father. 
And  so  I  would  not  ask  his  aid  or  even  go  to  him  for1 
advice.  Testing  me,  was  he?  All  right,  I  would  show 
him. 

And  I  returned  to  my  editor,  whom  my  intensity  rather 
amused. 

"The  joke  of  it  is,"  he  said,  "that  they  think  down 
there  you're  a  nmckraker." 

"I'll  be  one  soon  if  this  keeps  on." 

"But  it  won't,"  he  replied.  "As  soon  as  you've  once 
broken  in,  and  they  see  it's  a  glory  story  you  want,  you 
can't  imagine  how  nice  they'll  be." 

"I  haven't  broken  in,"  I  said. 

"You  will  to-morrow,"  he  told  me,  "because  Abner  Bell 
will  be  with  you.  He's  our  star  photographer.  Wait  till 
you  see  little  Ab  go  to  work.  The  place  he  can't  get  into 
hasn't  been  invented.  Besides,"  the  editor  added,  "Abner 
is  just  the  sort  of  chap  to  take  hold  of  an  author  from 
Paris  and  turn  him  into  a  writer." 

And  this  Abner  Bell  proceeded  to  do.    He  was  a  cheer- 


THE    HARBOR  159 

fill,  rotund  little  man  with  round  simple  eyes  and  a  smile 
that  went  all  over  his  face. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  when  I  met  him  the  next  day  down 
at  the  docks,  "you  can't  ask  a  harbor  to  hold  up  her  chin 
and  look  into  your, camera  while  you  count.  She's  such 
a  big  fat  noisy  slob  she  wouldn't  even  hear  you.  You've 
got  to  run  right  at  her  and  bark." 

"Look  here,  old  man,"  he  was  asking  a  watchman  a 
few  moments  later.  "What's  the  name  of  the  superin 
tendent  on  the  next  pier  down  the  line?" 

"Captain  Townes." 

"Townes,  Townes  ?    Is  that  Bill  Townes  ?" 

"No,  it's  Ed." 

"I  wonder  what's  become  of  Bill.  All  right,  brother, 
much  obliged.  See  you  again."  And  he  went  on. 

"Say,"  he  asked  the  next  watchman.  "Is  Eddy — I 
mean  Captain — Townes  upstairs  ?" 

"Sure  he  is.     Go  right  up." 

"Thank  you."  Up  we  went  to  the  office.  "Captain 
Townes  ?  Good-morning." 

"Well,  sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  The  captain  was 
an  Englishman  with  a  voice  as  heavy  and  deep  as  his 
eyes. 

"Why,  Captain,  I'm  sent  here  by  the  firm  that's  put 
ting  Peevey's  Paris  Perfume  on  the  market  out  in  the 
Middle  West.  They're  going  in  heavy  on  ads  this  Fall 
and  I've  got  an  order  to  hang  around  here  until  I  can 
get  a  photo  of  one  of  your  biggest  liners.  The  idea  is 
to  run  it  as  an  ad,  with  a  caption  under  it  something 
like  this :  'The  Kaiser  Wilhelm  reaching  New  York  with 
twenty  thousand  bottles  of  Peevey's  Best,  direct  from 
Paris.'  " 

"The  Kaiser  Willielm"  said  the  captain  ponderous 
ly,  "is  a  German  boat.  She  docks  in  Hoboken,  my 
friend." 

"Of  course  she  does,"  said  Abner.  "And  I  can  lug 
this  heavy  camera  way  over  there  if  you  say  so,  and  hand 


160  THE   HARBOR 

| 

ten  thousand  dollars  worth  of  free  ads  to  a  German  line, 
stick  up  pictures  of  their  boat  in  little  drugstore  windows 
all  up  and  down  the  Middle  West.  Do  you  know  how 
to  tell  me  to  go  away?" 

Captain  Townes  smiled  heavily. 

"No/'  he  said,  "I  guess  I  don't.  Here's  a  pass  that'll 
give  you  the  run  of  the  dock." 

"Make  it  two,"  said  Abner,  "and  fix  it  so  my  friend 
and  I  can  stick  around  for  quite  a  while." 

"You're  a  pretty  good  liar,"  I  told  him  as  we  went 
downstairs. 

"Oh,  hell,"  he  answered  modestly.  "Let's  go  out  on 
the  porch  and  get  cool." 

We  went  out  on  the  open  end  of  the  pier  and  sat  down 
on  a  wooden  beam  which  Abner  called  a  bulkhead. 

"If  we  don't  begin  calling  things  names,"  he  remarked, 
"we'll  never  get  to  feeling  we're  here.  Let's  just  sit 
and  feel  for  a  while." 

"I've  begun,"  I  replied. 

We  sat  in  the  shade  of  two  wooden  piles  with  the  glare 
of  a  midsummer  sun  all  around  us.  The  East  River  had 
been  like  a  crowded  creek  compared  to  this  wide  expanse 
of  water  slapping  and  gleaming  out  there  in  the  sun  with 
smoke  shadows  chasing  over  it  all.  There  was  the  rough 
odor  of  smoke  in  the  air  from  craft  of  all  kinds  as  they 
skurried  about.  The  high  black  bow  of  a  Cunarder 
loomed  at  the  end  of  the  dock  next  ours.  Far  across  the 
river  the  stout  German  liners  lay  at  their  berths — and 
they  did  not  look  like  sea  hogs.  What  a  change  had  come 
over  the  harbor  since  I  had  met  that  motorboat.  How 
all  the  hogs  had  waddled  away,  and  the  very  smoke  and 
the  oil  on  the  waves  had  taken  on  deep,  vivid  hues — as 
I  had  seen  through  Eleanore's  eyes.  "What  a  strange 
wonderful  purple,"  her  low  voice  seemed  to  murmur  at 
my  side. 

"She's  going  away  from  here,"  said  Ab.    I  started: 

"Who  is?" 


THE    HARBOR  161 

"That  Cunarder.  Look  at  the  smoke  pour  out  of  her 
stacks.  Got  a  cigarette  about  you?" 

"No,"  I  answered  gruffly. 

"Damn." 

In  the  slip  on  our  other  side  a  large  freight  boat  was 
loading,  and  a  herd  of  scows  and  barges  were  pressing 
close  around  her.  These  clumsy  craft  had  cabins,  and 
in  some  whole  families  lived.  "Harbor  Gypsies."  A 
good  title.  I  had  paid  the  butcher,  but  the  grocer  was 
still  waiting.  So  I  dismissed  my  motorboat  and  grimly 
turned  to  scows  instead.  Children  by  the  dozen  were  mak 
ing  friends  from  barge  to  barge.  Dogs  were  all  about 
us  and  they  too  were  busy  visiting.  High  up  on  the 
roof  of  a  ooal  lighter's  cabin  an  impudent  little  skye-terrier 
kept  barking  at  the  sooty  men  who  were  shoveling  down 
below.  One  of  these  from  time  to  time  would  lift  his 
black  face  and  good-humoredly  call,  "Oh,  you  go  to  hell" 
— which  would  drive  the  small  dog  into  frenzies.  Most 
of  the  barges  had  derrick  masts,  and  all  these  masts 
were  moving.  They  rose  between  me  and  the  sky, 
bobbing,  tossing  and  criss-crossing,  filling  the  place 
with  the  feeling  of  life,  the  unending,  restless  life  of  the 
sea. 

An  ear-shattering  roar  broke  in  on  it  all.  Our  Cunar 
der  was  startin'g.  Smoke  belching  black  from  her  fun 
nels,  the  monster  was  beginning  to  move. 

But  what  was  this  woman  doing  close  by  us?  Out  of 
the  cabin  of  a  barge  she  had  dragged  a  little  rocking 
chair,  and  now  she  had  brought  out  a  baby,  all  dressed  up 
in  its  Sunday  best,  and  was  rocking  expectantly,  watch 
ing  the  ship.  Thundering  to  the  harbor,  the  Cunarder 
now  moved  slowly  out.  As  she  swept  into  the  river  the 
end  of  the  pier  was  revealed  to  our  eyes  all  black  with 
people  waving.  They  waved  until  she  was  out  in  mid 
stream.  Then,  as  they  began  to  turn  away,  one  plump 
motherly-looking  woman  happened  to  glance  toward  us. 

"Why,  the  cute   little  baby,"   we  heard  her  exclaim. 


162  THE   HARBOR 

And  the  next  minute  hundreds  of  people  were  looking. 
The  barge  mother  rocked  serenely. 

Abner  grabbed  his  camera  and  jumped  nimbly  down 
on  the  barge,  where  he  took  the  baby's  picture,  with  the 
amused  crowd  for  a  background. 

"The  kid's  name,"  he  remarked  on  his  return,  "is  Vio- 
letta  Rosy.  She  was  born  at  two  a.  m.  at  Pier  Forty- 
nine."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  went  on 
sententiously,  "Think  what  it'll  mean  to  her,  through 
all  the  storm  and  stress  of  life,  to  be  able  to  look  fondly 
back  upon  the  dear  old  homestead.  There's  a  punch  to 
.Violetta.  Better  run  her  in." 

"I  will,"  I  said. 

"And  that  little  thing  of  mine,"  he  queried  modestly, 
"about  the  dear  old  homestead." 

"I've  got  it,"  I  replied. 

"I  hand  quite  a  few  little  things  to  writers,"  Ab  con 
tinued  cheerfully.  "If  you'll  just  give  me  some  idea  of 
what  it  is  you're  looking  for " 

"I'm  looking  for  the  punch,"  I  answered  promptly. 

"Then  we'll  get  on  fine,"  he  said.  "The  editor  got  me 
worried  some.  He  said  you'd  trained  in  Paris." 

"Oh,  that  was  only  a  starter,"  I  told  him. 

Presently  he  went  into  the  dockshed  on  his  unending 
quest  of  "the  punch."  And  left  to  myself  I  got  think 
ing.  What  did  Paris  know  about  us?  De  Maupassant's 
methods  wouldn't  do  here.  I  noticed  two  painters  in 
overalls  at  work  on  that  large  freighter.  With  long  brooms 
that  they  held  in  both  hands  they  were  slapping  a  band 
of  crude  yellow  paint  along  her  scarred  and  rusted  side. 
That  was  what  I  needed,  the  broom!  All  at  once  the 
harbor  took  hold  of  me  hard.  And  exulting  in  its  big 
ness,  the  bold  raw  splattering  bigness  of  my  native  Yankee 
land,  "Now  for  some  glory  stories,"  I  said. 

I  went  into  the  dockshed,  and  there  I  stayed  right 
through  until  night,  till  my  mind  was  limp  and  battered 
from  the  rush  of  new  impressions.  For  in  this  long  sea 


THE    HARBOR  163 

Station,  under  the  blue  arc-lights,  in  boxes,  barrels,  crates 
and  bags,  tumbling,  banging,  crashing,  came  the  products 
of  this  modern  land.  You  could  feel  the  pulse  of  a  con 
tinent  here.  From  the  factories,  the  mines  and  mills, 
the  prairies  and  the  forests,  the  plantations  and  the  vine 
yards,  there  flowed  a  mighty  tide  of  things — endlessly, 
both  day  and  night — you  could  shut  your  eyes  and  see 
the  long  brown  lines  of  cars  crawl  eastward  from  all  over 
the  land,  you  could  see  the  stuff  converging  here  to  be 
gathered  into  coarse  rope  nets  and  swept  up  to  the  liners. 
The  pulse  beat  fast  and  furious.  In  gangs  at  every 
hatchway  you  saw  men  heaving,  sweating,  you  heard  them 
swearing,  panting.  That  day  they  worked  straight  through 
the  night.  For  the  pulse  kept  beating,  beating,  and  the 
ship  must  sail  on  time! 

And  now  I  too  worked  day  and  night.  In  the  weeks 
that  followed,  Abner  Bell  came  and  went  many  times, 
but  for  me  it  was  my  entire  life.  Though  small  of  build 
I  was  tough  and  hard,  I  had  not  been  sick  for  a  day 
in  years,  and  now  I  easily  stood  the  strain.  Day  by 
day  my  story  grew,  my  glory  story  of  world  trade.  Watch 
ing,  questioning,  listening  here,  making  notes,  writing 
hasty  sketches  to  help  keep  us  going  at  home — slowly  I 
could  feel  this  place  yielding  up  its  inner  self,  its  punch 
and  bigness,  endless  rush,  its  feeling  of  a  nation  young 
and  piling  up  prodigious  wealth.  From  the  customhouse 
came  fabulous  tales  of  millionaires  ransacking  the  world. 
Rare  old  furniture,  rugs  and  tapestries,  paintings,  jewels, 
gorgeous  gowns  poured  in  a  dazzling  torrent  all  that  sum 
mer  through  the  docks.  One  day  on  a  Mediterranean 
ship,  in  their  immaculate  "stalls  de  luxe,"  came  two  black 
Arab  horses,  glistening,  quivering  creatures,  valued  by  the 
customhouse  at  twenty  thousand  dollars  each.  And  into 
the  same  ship  that  week,  as  though  in  payment  for  these 
two,  in  dust  and  heavy  smell  of  sweat  I  saw  a  thousand 
cattle  driven,  bellowing  and  lowing. 

I  exulted  in  these  symptoms  of  our  crude  and  lusty 


164  THE    HARBOR 

youth.  I  watched  my  countrymen  going  abroad.  Not 
only  through  the  Summer  but  straight  on  into  the  Pall 
they  came  by  tens  of  thousands  out  of  the  West,  people 
who  had  made  some  money  and  were  going  to  blow  it  in, 
to  buy  things  and  to  see  things,  to  learn  things  and  to 
eat  things.  One  day  at  noon,  on  the  end  of  a  dock,  when 
the  ship  was  already  far  out  in  midstream  and  all  the 
crashing  music  and  cheers  had  died  away,  a  meek  old  lady 
wiped  her  eyes  and  murmured  very  tearfully,  "I  suppose 
they'll  be  eating  their  luncheon  soon."  And  then  the 
loud  voice  of  her  daughter  replied: 

"Eat  ?  Why,  ma,  God  bless  their  hearts,  they'll  sit  on 
that  boat  and  eat  all  day!" 

And  I  echoed  her  wish  with  a  keen  delight.  God  bless 
their  hearts  and  stomachs.  Oh,  hungry  vigorous  Yankee 
land,  so  mightily  young — eat  on,  eat  on ! 

And  the  land  ate  on. 

•  ••••* 

My  work  here  rose  to  a  climax  a  week  or  two  before 
Christmas,  when  the  newest  liner  of  them  all  pulled  off  a 
new  world's  record  for  speed.  With  the  company's  pub 
licity  man,  who  had  become  a  friend  of  mine,  I  went  on 
the  health  officer's  tug  down  the  Bay  to  meet  her,  on  the 
coldest,  darkest  night  I've  ever  known  on  water.  Shortly 
after  nine  o'clock  the  big  boat's  light  gleamed  off  the  Hook 
and  she  bore  down  upon  us.  She  came  close,  slowed  down 
and  towered  by  our  side,  weird  as  a  ghost  with  snow  and 
ice  in  glimmering  sheets  on  her  steel  sides.  She  did  not 
stop.  We  caught  a  rope  ladder  and  scrambled  up,  and 
at  once  we  felt  her  speeding  on. 

And  she  was  indeed  a  story  that  night.  Bellowing 
hoarsely  now  in  warning  to  all  small  craft  to  get  out  of 
her  way,  she  was  rushing  into  the  harbor.  Suddenly  she 
slowed  again,  and  three  dark  mail  tugs  ranged  alongside, 
and  through  canvas  chutes  four  thousand  sacks  of  Christ 
mas  mail  began  to  pour  down  while  the  ship  moved  on. 
.Up  her  other  side  came  climbing  gangs  of  men  who  began 


THE    HARBOR  165 

to  make  ready  her  winches  and  open  up  her  hatches.  Now 
we  were  moving  in  close  to  the  pier,  with  a  whole  fleet 
of  tugs  around  us.  Faint  shouts  rose  in  the  zero  night, 
toots  and  sharp  whistles.  One  of  the  gang-planks  was 
down  at  last  and  two  hundred  dockers  came  up  on  the 
run.  Off  went  the  passengers  and  the  luggage,  reporters 
skurrying  through  the  crowds.  But  the  ship  did  not  rest. 
For  she  was  to  sail  again  the  next  night.  This  was  to  be 
a  world's  record  for  speed ! 

All  night  long  the  work  went  on,  and  I  watched  it 
from  a  deck  above,  going  in  now  and  then  for  food  and 
hot  drinks.  On  her  dock  side,  forward,  Christmas  boxes, 
bales  and  packages  were  being  whipped  up  out  of  her 
hold  to  the  rattle  of  her  winches.  One  sharp  whistle 
and  up  they  shot  into  the  air  till  they  swung  some  seventy 
feet  above.  Another  whistle  and  down  they  whirled  into 
the  dockshed  far  below  from  which  a  blaze  of  light  poured 
up.  At  the  same  time  she  was  coaling.  Along  the  black 
wall  of  her  other  side,  as  I  peered  over  the  rail  above,  I 
saw  far  below  a  row  of  barges  crowded  with  Italians. 
Powerful  lights  swung  over  their  heads  in  the  freezing 
wind,  swung  above  black  coal  heaps  and  the  lapping  water. 
It  was  an  inferno  of  shifting  lights  and  long  leaping 
shadows. 

I  watched  till  daylight  blotted  out  the  yellow  glare  of 
the  lanterns.  Then  I  went  home  to  get  some  sleep.  And 
late  that  night  when  I  came  back  I  found  her  almost 
ready  to  sail. 

Out  of  taxis  and  automobiles  chugging  down  in  front 
of  the  pier,  the  passengers  were  pouring  in.  Many  were 
in  evening  clothes,  some  just  come  from  dinners  and 
others  from  box  parties.  The  theaters  had  just  let  out. 
The  rich  warm  hues  of  the  women's  cloaks,  the  gay  head 
dresses  here  and  there  and  the  sparkling  earrings,  im 
maculate  gloves  and  dainty  wanton  slippered  feet,  kept 
giving  flashes  of  color  to  this  dark  freezing  ocean 
place.  Most  of  these  people  went  hurrying  up  into  the 


166  THE    HARBOR 

warm,  gorgeous  cafe  of  the  ship,  which  was  run  from 
a  hotel  in  Paris.  What  had  all  this  to  do  with  the  sea? 

"Come  on,"  said  the  genial  press  agent.  "You're  the 
company's  guest  to-night." 

And  while  we  ate  and  drank  and  smoked,  and  the 
tables  around  us  filled  with  people  whose  ripples  and 
bursts  of  laughter  rose  over  the  orchestra's  festive  throb, 
and  corks  kept  popping  everywhere,  he  told  me  where 
they  were  going,  these  gay  revellers,  for  tkeir  Christ 
mas  Day — to  London,  Brussels,  Berlin  and  Vienna,  Paris, 
Nice,  Monte  Carlo,  Algiers. 

"Now  come  with  me,"  he  said  at  last,  and  he  took  me 
along  warm  passageways  to  the  row  of  cabins  de  luxe. 

First  we  looked  into  the  Bridal  Suite,  to  which  one 
of  the  Pittsburgh  makers  of  steel,  having  just  divorced 
a  homely  old  wife,  was  presently  to  bring  his  new  bride,  a 
ravishing  young  creature  of  musical  comedy  fame.  They 
had  been  married  that  afternoon.  A  French  maid  was 
•unpacking  dainty  shimmering  little  gowns,  soft  furry 
things  and  other  things  of  silk  and  lace,  and  hanging  them 
up  in  closets.  It  was  a  large  room,  and  there  were  other 
rooms  adjoining  and  two  big  luxurious  baths.  The  cost 
of  it  all  was  four  thousand  dollars  for  the  five  days.  There 
were  tall  mirrors  and  dressing  tables,  there  were  capacious 
easy  chairs.  Low  subdued  lights  were  here  and  there,  and 
a  thick  rug  was  on  the  floor.  Over  in  one  corner  was 
a  huge  double  bed  of  cream  colored  wood  with  rich  soft 
quilts  upon  it.  Beside  the  bed  in  a  pink  satin  cradle 
there  lay  a  tiny  Pekinese  dog. 

"Next,"  he  whispered.  We  peeped  into  the  next  state 
room,  and  there  divided  from  her  neighbors  by  only  one 
thin  partition,  a  sober,  wrinkled  little  old  lady  in  black 
velvet  sat  quietly  reading  her  Bible.  Soon  she  would  be 
saying  her  prayers. 

"Next,"  he  whispered.  And  in  the  cabin  on  her  other 
side  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  jovial  men  playing  cards 
in  gay  pajamas  with  a  bottle  of  Scotch  between  them. 


THE    HARBOR  167 

"Next."  And  as  we  went  on  down  the  row  he  gave  me 
the  names  of  an  English  earl,  a  Jewish  clothing  mer 
chant,  a  Minnesota  ranchman,  a  banker's  widow  from 
Boston,  a  Tammany  politician,  a  Catholic  bishop  from 
Baltimore,  a  millionaire  cheese  maker  from  Troy  and  a 
mining  king  from  Montana. 

"How  about  that,"  he  asked  at  the  end,  "for  an  Ameri 
can  row  de  luxe?" 

"My  God,  it's  great,"  I  whispered. 

"There's  only  one  big  question  here,"  he  added.  "Your 
long  respectable  pedigrees  and  your  nice  little  Puritanical 
codes  can  all  go  to  blazes — this  big  boat  will  throw  'em 
all  overboard  for  you — if  you  can  answer,  'I've  got  the 
price/ ' 


CHAPTER   XII 

MEANWHILE,  in  the  late  Autumn,  Eleanore  had  come 
back  to  town.  I  had  a  note  from  her  one  day. 

"Come  and  tell  me  what  you  are  writing,"  she  said. 

I  went  to  see  her  that  afternoon,  and  I  was  deeply 
excited.  I  had  often  felt  her  by  my  side  when  I  was 
watching  the  harbor  life  and  as  often  behind  me  while 
I  wrote.  We  had  had  long  talks  together,  absorbing  talks 
about  ourselves.  And  though  now  in  her  easy  welcome 
and  through  all  her  cheerful  questions  there  was  not  a 
suggestion  that  we  two  had  been  or  ever  would  be  any 
thing  but  genial  friends,  this  did  not  discourage  me  in 
the  least.  ISTo  fellow,  I  thought,  could  be  happy  as  I  and 
have  nothing  better  than  friendship  ahead.  The  Fates 
could  never  be  so  hard,  for  certainly  now  they  were 
smiling. 

Here  was  her  apartment,  just  the  place  I  had  felt 
it  would  bo,  only  infinitely  more  attractive.  High  up 
above  the  Manhattan  jungle,  it  was  quiet  and  sunny  and 
charming  here.  From  the  low,  wide  living-room  windows 
you  could  see  miles  out  over  the  harbor  where  my  work 
was  going  so  splendidly,  and  all  around  the  room  itself 
I  saw  what  I  was  working  for.  Eleanore's  touch  was 
everywhere.  An  intimate,  lovable  feminine  home  with 
man-sized  views  from  its  windows — just  like  Eleanore 
herself,  from  whom  I  found  it  difficult  to  keep  my  hungry 
eyes  away.  To  that  soft  bewildering  hair  of  hers  she 
had  done  something  different — I  couldn't  tell  what,  but 
I  loved  it.  I  loved  the  changing  tones  of  her  voice — I 
hate  monotonous  voices.  I  watched  the  smiling  lights  in 
her  eyes.  She  was  at  her  small  tea  table  now.  Her 

168 


THE   HARBOR  169 

motorboat,  thank  Heaven,  was  laid  up  for  the  winter, 
and  I  had  her  right  here  in  a  room,  with  nothing  to  do 
with  her  eyes  but  pay  a  decent  amount  of  attention  to 
me.  Then  by  some  chance  remark  I  learned  that  she  had 
been  reading  what  I  wrote,  almost  all  of  it,  in  fact.  And 
at  the  slight  exclamation  I  made  I  saw  her  color  slightly 
and  bite  her  lip  as  though  she  were  angry  with  herself 
for  having  let  that  secret  out. 

"What  do  you  want  to  write,"  she  asked,  "when  you 
get  through  with  the  harbor?" 

"Fiction,"  I  said.  "I  want  it  so  hard  sometimes  that 
it  seems  like  a  long  way  ahead.  It  seems  sometimes," 
I  added,  "like  a  girl  I'd  fallen  in  love  with — but  I  couldn't 
even  ask  her — because  I'm  so  infernally  poor." 

Over  the  tea  cup  at  her  lips  Eleanore  looked  thought 
fully  straight  into  and  through  and  behind  my  eyes. 

"Fiction  is  such  a  broad  field,"  she  remarked.  "What 
kind  do  you  think  you're  going  to  try?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "It  still  seems  so  far 
ahead.  You  see,  I  have  no  name  at  all,  and  this  harbor 
at  least  is  a  good  safe  start.  I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  a 
cautious  sort.  When  I  find  what  I  want — and  want  so 
hard  that  it's  the  deepest  part  of  me — I  like  to  go  slow. 
I'm  afraid  to  risk  losing  it  all — deciding  my  life  one  way 
or  the  other — by  taking  a  chance."  *  I  made  a  restless 
movement.  "I  wasn't  speaking  of  my  work  just  then," 
I  added  gruffly. 

I  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of  myself  in  the  mirror 
back  of  Eleanore's  chair.  And  I  glared  at  myself  for 
the  fool  that  I  was  to  have  said  all  that.  I  hadn't  meant 
to — not  in  the  least !  What  a  paltry  looking  cuss  I  was — 
small,  tough  and  wiry,  hair  sandy,  eyes  of  no  color  at 
all,  snub  nose  and  a. jaw  shut  tight  as  in  pain. 

"You're  a  queer  person,"  said  a  voice. 

"I  am,"  I  agreed  forlornly.  "I'm  the  queerest  fellow 
I  ever  met."  I  caught  a  grim  twinkle  in  my  eyes.  Thank 
God  for  a  sense  of  humor. 


170  THE    HARBOR 

"Sometimes,"  she  went  on,  reflectively,  "you  seem  to 
me  as  old  as  the  hills — and  again  so  young  and  obvious. 
I'm  so  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that  you  weren't  talking 
of  your  work.  I  like  to  hear  men  talk  of  their  work." 

"I  know  you  do,"  I  sa.id  hungrily.  "And  that's  one 
of  the  reasons  why  you're  going  to  mean  so  much  some 
day — to  somebody's  work — and  to  his  whole  life." 

Why  couldn't  I  stop?  Had  I  gone  insane?  I  rose 
and  moved  about  the  room.  A  low  rippling  laugh  brought 
me  back  to  my  senses. 

"But  how  about  me  and  my  life?"  she  asked.  "That 
ought  to  be  thought  of  a  little,  you  know." 

I  came  close  beside  her: 

"Let  me  say  this.  Won't  you?  I'll  promise  never  to 
say  it  again.  Your  life  is  going  to  be  all  right.  It's  going 
to  be  quite  wonderful — you'll  be  tremendously  happy. 
I'm  sure  of  that.  It's  not  only  the  way  you  always — - 
look — it's  the  way  you  always  think  and  feel.  It's  every 
thing  about  you." 

She  had  looked  down  at  her  hands  for  a  moment.  Xow 
she  looked  up  suddenly. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  smiling,  in  a  way  that  told  me 
to  smile  too.  I  obeyed. 

"I  did  that  rather  badly,  didn't  I,"  I  said. 

"No,  you  did  that  rather  well.  Especially  the  first 
part — I  think  I  liked  that  best  of  all — the  part  where  you 
promised  so  solemnly  that  you'd  never  do  it  again." 

I  went  indignantly  back  to  my  chair. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "I  feel  sometimes  when  I'm 
with  you  as  though  I  were  being  managed!  Absolutely 
managed !" 

"I  should  think  you  wouldn't  like  that,"  she  replied. 
Her  hands  were  peacefully  folded  now  and  she  looked 
at  me  serenely:  "I  should  think  you'd  rather  manage 
yourself." 

I  took  the  hint.  From  that  day  on,  each  time  I  came 
to  see  her,  I  managed  myself  severely.  And  this  ap- 


THE    HARBOR  171 

parently  pleased  her  so  much  that  she  seemed  no  longer 
the  least  afraid  to  let  me  know  her  as  well  as  I  liked. 
Her  father,  too,  when  I  met  him  now  and  then  in  the 
evenings,  was  most  kindly  in  his  welcome.  And  as  winter 
wore  on,  my  hopes  rose  high. 

But  one  evening,  after  Dillon  had  read  my  story  about 
the  Christmas  Boat,  he  gave  me  a  bitter  disappointment. 

"I  like  it,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  back.  "It's  a 
fine  dramatic  piece  of  work.  But  it's  only  a  starter 
here.  To  get  any  idea  of  our  problem  you'll  have  to  go 
all  over  the  harbor.  When  you've  done  that  for  a  few 
months  more,  and  I  get  back  from  my  trip  abroad,  I'll 
be  glad  to  help  you." 

"You're  going  abroad?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

"Next  month,"  he  said,  "with  Eleanore.  She  seems 
to  think  I  need  a  rest." 

Back  oame  the  old  feeling  of  emptiness.  And  gloomily 
at  home  that  night  I  wondered  if  it  was  because  she  knew 
she  was  leaving  so  soon  that  she  had  been  so  intimate 
lately.  How  outrageous  women  are. 


CHAPTEE   XIII 

THEY  sailed  the  middle  of  March. 

It  is  easy  to  look  back  now  and  smile  at  my  small 
desolate  self  as  I  was  in  the  months  that  followed.  But 
at  the  time  it  was  no  smiling  matter.  I  was  intensely 
wretched  and  I  had  a  right  to  be,  for  I  could  see  nothing 
whatever  ahead  but  the  most  dire  uncertainties.  Did  Elea- 
nore  really  care  for  me?  I  didn't  know.  When  could 
I  ask  her?  I  didn't  know.  For  when  would  I  be  earn 
ing  enough  to  ask  any  girl  to  marry  me?  At  present 
nearly  all  I  earned  was  swallowed  up  by  expenses  at 
home,  and  I  knew  that  in  all  likelihood  this  drain  would 
soon  grow  heavier. 

For  we  could  not  count  much  longer  on  my  father's 
salary.  Already  I  had  done  my  best  to  make  him  give 
up  his  position.  He  stubbornly  resisted. 

"I'm  strong  as  I  ever  was,"  he  declared,  and  he  took 
great  pains  to  prove  it.  He  would  sit  down  to  dinner, 
his  face  heavy  and  gray  with  fatigue,  but  by  a  hard  visi 
ble  effort  slowly  he  would  throw  it  off,  keenly  questioning 
me  about  my  work,  more  often  quizzing  me  about  it,  or 
Sue  about  her  "revolooters."  He  had  a  stock  of  these  dry 
remarks  and  he  used  them  over  and  over.  When  the  same 
jokes  came  night  after  night  we  kne  v  he  was  very  tired. 
After  dinner  on  such  evenings,  when  I  went  with  him 
into  his  study  to  smoke,  he  would  invariably  settle  back 
in  his  chair  with  the  same  loud  "Ah !"  of  comfort,  and  he 
would  follow  this  up  as  he  lit  his  cigar  with  the  most 
obvious  grunts  expressive  of  health  to  prove  to  me  how 
strong  he  was.  He  was  always  grimly  delighted  when  I 
spent  these  evenings  with  him,  but  always  before  his 

172 


THE   HARBOR  17$ 

cigar  was  out  his  head  would  sink  slowly  over  his  book 
and  soon  he  would  be  sound  asleep.  Then  as  I  sat  at 
my  writing  I  would  glance  over  from  time  to  time.  I 
could  tell  when  he  was  waking,  and  at  once  I  would  grow 
absorbed  in  my  work.  Soon  I  would  hear  a  slight  snort 
of  surprise,  I  would  hear  him  stealthily  feel  for  his  book, 
and  then  presently  out  of  the  silence 

"This  is  a  devilish  good  piece  of  writing,  boy,"  he 
would  announce  abruptly.  "When  you  learn  to  hold  your 
reader  like  this  I'll  begin  to  think  you're  a  writer." 

Yes,  my  father  was  aging  fast,  I  would  soon  be  the 
only  breadwinner  here.  Sue  fought  hard  against  this  idea, 
she  was  still  set  on  finding  work  for  herself,  but  each 
time  she  proposed  it  Dad  would  rise  so  indignantly,  with 
such  evident  pain  in  his  glaring  old  eyes,  that  she  would 
be  forced  to  give  up  her  plan.  In  such  talks  I  supported 
him,  and  in  return  when  we  two  were  alone  Sue  would 
revenge  herself  on  me  by  the  most  cutting  comments  on 
"this  inane  habit  of  looking  at  girls  as  fit  for  nothing 
better  than  marriage." 

These  comments,  I  was  well  aware,  were  aimed  at  my 
feeling  for  Eleanore,  for  whom  Sue  had  no  longer  any 
good  word  but  only  a  smiling  derision.  Her  remarks  were 
straight  out  of  Bernard  Shaw's  most  ribald  works,  and 
they  left  me  miserably  wondering  whether  any  man  had 
ever  loved  in  any  way  that  wasn't  the  curse  or  the  joke 
of  his  life.  Sue  dwelt  on  this  glorious  age  of  deep  radical 
changes  going  on,  she  spoke  of  Joe  Kramer,  with  whom' 
she  still  corresponded,  and  enlarged  on  the  wonderful 
freedom  he  had  to  go  anywhere  at  any  time.  Thank  a 
merciful  heaven  he  wasn't  tied  down !  And  if  Joe  would 
only  keep  his  head  and  not  marry,  not  get  a  huge  family 
on  his  hands 

Sue  made  me  perfectly  wretched. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  I  again  tackled  the  harbor. 
Dillon  had  told  me  to  cover  it  all,  and  this  I  now  set 


174  THE   HARBOR 

out  to  do.  On  warm  muggy  April  days  I  tramped  what 
appeared  to  me  hundreds  of  miles.  But  the  regions  that 
from  Eleanore's  boat  had  somehow  had  a  feeling  of  being 
one  great  living  thing,  now  on  these  dreary  trudging  days 
fell  apart  into  remote  bays  and  slips  and  rivers,  hours 
of  weary  travel  apart  and  each  without  any  connection 
with  any  other  that  I  could  see.  Railroad  tracks  wound 
in  and  out  with  no  apparent  purpose,  dirty  freight  boats 
crawled  helter-skelter  this  way  and  that.  All  seemed  a 
meaningless  chaos  and  jam. 

And  still  worse,  as  I  wrestled  with  this  confusion  I 
found  it  was  growing  stale  to  me.  In  those  Spring  days 
I  was  fagged  and  dull,  my  imagination  would  not  work. 
And  this  gave  me  a  scare.  I  must  not  grow  stale,  I  must 
keep  right  on  making  money  to  meet  the  bills  that  were 
still  piling  up  at  home.  And  so  for  a  Sunday  paper  I 
undertook  a  series  on  "The  Harbor  from  a  Police  Boat." 
This  sounded  rather  exciting  and  I  hoped  that  it  might 
restore  the  lost  thrill.  The  harbor  that  it  showed  me 
made  fine  Sunday  reading.  Out  of  iis  grim  waters  dead 
bodies  bobbed,  dead  faces  leered,  the  sodden  ends  of  mys 
teries.  I  wrote  them  and  got  paid  for  them.  And  I 
felt  no  thrill  but  only  disgust.  I  made  some  more  money 
out  of  rats — rats  in  countless  ravenous  hordes  that  had 
a  harbor  world  of  their  own.  This  world  extended  for 
hundreds  of  miles  in  the  dark  chill  places  under  the 
wharves.  And  the  rats  kept  gnawing,  gnawing,  and  slowly 
with  the  help  of  the  waves  they  wore  away  to  splinters 
and  pulp  the  millions  of  beams  and  planks  and  piles.  I 
found  that  entire  mountains  were  denuded  each  year  of 
their  forests  to  supply  food  for  the  rats  and  the  ocean  here. 
I  was  almost  a  muckraker  now. 

Meanwhile  I  had  gone  in  June  to  the  South  Brooklyn 
waterfront  and  had  taken  a  room  in  a  tenement  near  the 
end  of  a  dock  peninsula  which  jutted  out  into  the  bay. 
For  I  wanted  to  live  in  the  very  heart  of  the  big  port's 
confusion,  to  grapple  alone  with  the  chaos  out  of  which 


THE    HARBOR  175 

Dillon's  engineers  were  striving  to  bring  order.  Here  I 
lived  for  weeks  by  myself,  taking  my  meals  in  a  barroom 
below. 

There  were  no  stately  liners  here.  The  North  River 
piers  with  their  rich  life  had  been  like  a  show  room.  I 
had  come  down  into  the  factory  now.  I  could  see  them 
still,  those  liners,  but  only  in  the  distance  steaming 
through  the  Narrows.  Eleanore  had  gone  that  way.  Here 
close  around  me  were  grimy  yards  with  heaps  of  coal, 
enormous  sheds,  and  inland  one  of  the  two  narrow  mouths 
of  the  crowded  Erie  Basin,  out  of  which  slid  ugly  freight 
ers  through  the  dirty  water. 

Like  the  Ancient  Mariner  I  sat  there  dully  on  the 
pier  watching  the  life  of  the  ocean  go  past,  and  I  would 
try  to  jot  it  down.  But  soon  I  would  stop.  "All  right — 
who  cares  ?"  The  punch  was  gone.  It  grew  hot  and  the 
water  smelt.  And  I  was  as  blue  a  reporter  of  life  as 
ever  chewed  his  pencil. 

But  life  has  a  way  of  punching  up  even  a  stale  young 
writer.  In  the  rooms  above  mine  lived  a  man  and  wife 
who  quarreled  half  way  through  the  night.  Night  after 
night  they  railed  at  each  other,  until  one  horrible 
night  of  screams,  in  the  middle  of  which  I  heard  the  man 
come  running  downstairs.  He  banged  at  my  door. 

"Come  in,"  I  cried  morosely.  A  big  figure  entered 
the  dark  room. 

"Look  here,"  said  a  rough  frightened  voice.  "Get  up 
and  get  dressed  and  run  for  a  doctor.  Will  you,  son  ? 
I'm  in  a  hell  of  a  hole !" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"My  woman  is  havin'  a  baby,  that's  what,"  he  an 
swered  fiercely.  "We  wasn't  expectin'  it  so  soon!  An' 
there  ain't  a  single  doctor  in  miles!  But  there's  a  night 
watchman  with  a  'phone  down  there  in  the  dockshed !" 

"All  right,  old  man,  I'll  do  my  best." 

"Say!"  he  shouted  after  me,  as  I  hurried  down  the 
stairs.  "If  you  know  a  damn  thing  about  this  business 


176  THE    HARBOR 

come  back  here  the  minute  you've  'phoned !  I'm  in  a  hole, 
brother,  a  hell  of  a  hole!" 

I  came  back  soon,  and  within  a  few  minutes  after  I 
came  I  saw  a  baby  born. 

I  did  not  sleep  that  night.  My  mind  was  curiously 
clear.  I  had  had  the  jolt  that  I  needed  from  life — its 
agony  and  bloody  sweat,  its  mystery.  It  was  not  dull, 
it  was  not  stale.  The  only  trouble  lay  in  me.  I  must 
find  a  new  angle  from  which  to  write. 

Why  not  try  becoming  one  of  the  workers?  The  man 
upstairs  was  a  tug  captain,  and  grateful  to  me  for  what 
help  I  had  given;  he  now  agreed  to  take  me  on  his  tug, 
where  there  was  plenty  of  simple  work  which  I  did  for 
a  dollar  a  day  and  my  board.  And  at  once  I  felt  a  dif 
ference.  The  light  work  steadied  my  overwrought  nerves 
and  unlocked  my  mind  which  had  set  tight.  And  now 
at  last  I  began  to  see  my  way  out  of  the  jungle. 

For  the  tug  belonged  to  a  row  of  piers  about  a  mile 
to  the  southward.  Brand  new  gigantic  piers  they  were, 
with  solid  rows  of  factory  buildings  on  the  shore  behind 
them,  all  owned  by  one  great  company,  which  rented  floors 
or  parts  of  floors  to  hundreds  of  manufacturers  here. 
The  raw  materials  they  required  were  landed  from  barges 
or  ships  at  the  piers  and  delivered  to  their  doors  at  once, 
and  their  finished  products  were  conveyed  in  the  same 
way  to  all  parts  of  the  world.  Here  was  a  key  to  the 
future  port  of  ordered  combination  that  Eleanore's  father 
was  working  toward.  Here  was  the  place  I  must  write 
up  before  he  came  back  from  abroad,  to  show  him  that  I 
had  found  it. 

And  the  very  certainty  of  this  increased  my  exaspera 
tion.  For  even  still  I  could  not  write.  Doggedly  I 
worked  at  night  up  there  in  my  room  in  the  tenement, 
but  I  wrote  the  most  tedious  dismal  stuff  which  I  would 
tear  up  savagely.  Inanely  I  would  pound  my  head  as 
though  to  put  punch  into  it. 

But  another  miracle  happened  to  me. 


THE   HARBOR  177 

On  one  of  those  enormous  piers,  roofed  over,  dim  and 
cool  inside,  I  stood  one  day  looking  out  on  the  deck 
of  an  East  Indian  freighter,  where  two  half -naked  Malays 
were  polishing  the  brasswork.  One  of  them  was  a  boy  of 
ten.  His  small  face  was  uncouth  and  primitive  almost 
as  some  little  ape's,  but  I  saw  him  look  up  again  and 
again  with  a  sudden  gleaming  expectancy.  I  grew  curi 
ous  and  waited.  Now  the  looks  came  oftener,  his  every 
move  was  restless.  And  after  a  time  another  boy,  a  lit 
tle  New  York  "newsie,"  with  a  pack  of  evening  papers, 
came  loitering  along  the  pier.  Unconcernedly  up  the 
gang-plank  he  went,  while  the  Malay  crouched  in  his 
corner,  rigid  and  tense,  his  black  eyes  fixed.  The  white 
boy  took  no  notice.  Climbing  up  a  ladder  he  sold  a 
couple  of  papers  to  some  officers  on  a  deck  above,  and 
then  he  went  down  again  to  the  dock.  Presently  one 
of  the  officers  yawned  and  threw  his  paper  over  the  rail, 
and  as  it  fell  to  the  lower  deck  in  an  instant  the  Malay 
boy  was  upon  it,  devouring  its  headlines  and  its  pictures 
with  his  animal  eyes,  with  one  of  his  small  bare  brown 
feet  upon  the  jeweled  bosom  of  the  latest  Fifth  Avenue 
divorcee. 

"Where  does  that  kid  sleep  ?"  I  asked  an  officer.  I  was 
shown  his  bunk  below,  and  there  I  found  I  had  guessed 
right.  For  the  side  and  the  top  and  both  ends  of  his 
bunk  were  lined  with  red  headlines  and  newspaper  pic 
tures  all  carefully  cut  and  pasted  on.  Five  of  the  New 
York  "Giants"  were  there. 

And  as  though  the  fresh  fierce  hungriness  had  passed 
from  that  small  heathen's  soul  into  my  own,  that  day  I 
again  became  a  reporter  of  things  to  be  seen  in  the  port  of 
New  York. 

Back  into  the  dockshed  I  went,  and  all  up  and  down 
and  in  and  out  among  piles  of  strange  and  odorous  stuffs. 
And  once  more  I  felt  the  wonder  of  this  modern  ocean 
world.  I  followed  this  raw  produce  of  Mother  Earth's 
four  corners  back  into  those  factory  buildings  ashore.  I 


178  THE    HARBOR 

saw  it  made  into  chewing-gum,  toys,  sofas,  glue,  curled 
hair  and  wall-paper.  I  saw  it  made  into  ladies'  hats, 
corks,  carpets,  dynamos,  stuffed  dates.  I  saw  it  made  into 
dirt-proof  collars  and  shirt  bosoms,  salad  dressing,  black 
boards,  corsets  and  the  like.  Again  I  fairly  reveled  in 
lists  of  things  and  the  places  they  came  from  and  the 
places  to  which  they  were  going.  I  saw  chewing-gum 
start  for  Rio  and  Quaker  Oats  for  Shanghai,  patent  medi 
cine  for  Nabat,  curled  hair  for  Yokohama,  "movy"  thea 
ter  seats  for  Sydney,  tomato  soup  for  Cape  Town  and  cor 
sets  for  Rangoon. 

"From  Everywhere  to  Anywhere"  was  the  title  of  my 
article.  It  took  only  a  week  to  write,  and  was  ready 
when  the  Dillons  came  home. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THEY  landed  toward  the  end  of  July  and  I  went  to  the 
dock  to  meet  them. 

Elated  over  my  finished  story,  which  I  had  in  my 
pocket,  and  made  absurdly  happy  by  the  sight  of  Elea- 
nore  smiling  down  at  me  over  the  rail,  I  was  surprised 
at  the  greeting  she  gave  me. 

"Why,  you  poor  boy.  How  terribly  hard  you've  been 
working,"  she  said.  And  she  looked  at  me  as  though  I 
were  sick  and  worn  to  the  bone.  The  end  of  it  was  that 
I  accepted  delightedly  an  invitation  to  spend  a  week  up 
at  their  cottage  on  the  Sound. 

Those  were  seven  vivid  glowing  days.  I  could  not  re 
lax,  I  was  too  intensely  happy,  I  had  too  much  to  tell 
her,  not  only  about  my  work  but  about  a  host  of  other 
things  that  without  rhyme  or  reason  popped  into  my 
mind  and  had  to  be  said.  The  range  of  our  talk  was 
tremendous,  and  the  wider  we  ranged  the  closer  we  drew. 
For  she  too  was  telling  things,  and  her  things  were  as 
unexpected  as  mine  and  infinitely  more  absorbing.  Her 
manner  toward  me  had  quite  changed.  It  was  that  of  a 
nurse  with  an  invalid,  she  frankly  ordered  me  about. 

"Why  can't  you  lie  back  on  those  cushions  ?"  she  asked 
one  morning  when  we  were  out  in  her  boat.  "You  ought 
to  be  dozing  half  the  day — and  instead  you're  as  wide 
awake  as  an  owl." 

"I  am,"  I  admitted  happily.  "I'm  trying  to  see  every 
thing."  The  chic  little  hat  and  the  blouse  she  wore  were 
adorably  fresh  from  Paris,  and  as  I  watched  her  run  her 
boat  I  could  feel  flowing  into  my  body  and  soul  a  per 
fectly  boundless  store  of  new  life. 

179 


180  THE   HARBOR 

"I've  been  thinking  you  over,"  she  said. 

"Have  you?"  I  asked  delightedly.  I  had  often  won 
dered  if  she  had.  "What  do  you  think  ?"  I  inquired. 

Eleanore  frowned  perplexedly. 

"You're  such  a  queer  combination,"  she  said.  "You 
have  such  ridiculous  ups  and  downs.  To-day  you're  way 
up,  aren't  you." 

"I  am,"  I  said  very  earnestly.  She  looked  off  placidly 
over  the  Sound. 

"You're  so  very  sensitive,"  she  went  on.  "You  let 
things  take  hold  of  you  so  hard.  And  yet  on  the  other 

hand  you  seem  to  be  so  very "  she  hesitated  for  a 

word. 

"Tough,"  I  suggested  cheerfully. 

"No — hungry,"  Eleanore  said.  "You're  always  reach 
ing  out  for  things — you  jump  right  into  them  so  hard. 
And  even  when  they  hurt  you — and  you're  hurt  quite 
easily — you  hang  on  and  won't  let  go.  Look  at  the  way 
you've  gone  at  the  harbor  right  from  the  start.  And 
you're  doing  it  still — you've  done  it  all  summer  until  it 
has  made  you  look  like  a  ghost.  And  I  guess  you'll 
keep  on  all  your  life.  There  are  harbors  everywhere,  you 
know — in  a  way  the  whole  world  is  a  harbor — and  unless 
you  change  a  lot  you're  going  to  be  hurt  a  good  deal." 

"My  mother  agreed  with  you,"  I  said.  "She  wanted 
me  to  be  a  professor  in  a  quiet  college  town." 

"Please  stop  twinkling  your  eyes,"  Eleanore  com 
manded.  "Your  mother  knew  you  very  well.  You  might 
have  done  that — and  settled  down — with  some  nice  quiet 
college  girl — if  you  had  done  it  years  ago.  As  it  is, 
of  course  you're  hopeless." 

"I  am  not  hopeless,"  I  declared  indignantly.  "If  I 
can  only  get  what  I  want  I'll  be  the  happiest  fellow 
alive!" 

"I  know,"  she  answered  thoughtfully.  "You  told  me 
that  before.  You  want  fiction,  don't  you." 

"Yes,    fiction,"    I    said  wrathfully.       "I    want    that 


THE   HARBOR  181 

more  than  anything  else.  But  I  don't  want  any  quiet 
kind,  and  I  don't  want  any  quiet  town,"  I  went  on,  lean 
ing  forward  intensely.  "I  want  the  harbor  and  the  city 
— I  want  it  thick  and  heavy,  and  just  as  fast  as  it  will 
come.  I  want  all  the  life  there  is  in  the  world — all  the 
beauty — all  the  happiness !  And  I  can't  wait — I  want  it 
soon !" 

From  under  the  brim  of  her  soft  white  hat  her  blue- 
gray  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  the  shore,  which  was 
miles  away.  But  watching  her  I  saw  she  knew  that 
all  the  time  I  was  saying  desperately,  "I  want  you." 

I  knew  she  did  not  want  me  to  say  anything  like  that 
out  loud,  and  I  felt  myself  that  I  had  no  right — not  until 
I  had  done  so  much  more  in  my  writing.  But  I  kept 
circling  around  it.  Half  the  time  on  purpose  and  as  often 
quite  unconsciously,  in  all  we  talked  about  those  days 
I  kept  eagerly  filling  in  the  picture  of  the  life  we  two 
might  lead.  When  in  one  of  her  cool  hostile  moods — 
moods  which  came  over  her  suddenly — she  told  me  al 
most  jealously  how  happy  she'd  been  with  her  father 
abroad  and  how  together  they  had  planned  to  go  to  India, 
China,  Japan  in  the  years  to  come,  I  brought  her  back 
to  my  subject  by  saying:  "I  mean  to  travel  a  lot  my 
self." 

"That's  one  advantage  I  have  as  a  writer,"  I  continued 
earnestly.  "I'll  never  be  tied  down  to  one  place.  All 
my  life — whenever  I  choose — I  can  pick  up  my  work  and 
go  anywhere." 

She  looked  straight  back  into  my  eyes. 

"I  wish  my  father  could,"  she  said. 

"Look  here,"  I  said  indignantly.  "Your  father  has 
been  four  months  abroad  while  I  have  been  in  Brooklyn ! 
Isn't  it  only  fair  and  square  to  let  me  travel  this  after 
noon  ?"  She  looked  at  me  reluctantly. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.     "I  suppose  it  is." 

"Come  along,"  I  urged,  and  off  we  went.  While  our 
boat  drifted  idly  that  long,  lazy  afternoon,  we  went 


182  THE    HARBOR 

careering  all  over  the  world  and  I  kept  doggedly  by  her 
side.  Every  now  and  then  I  would  make  her  stop  while 
we  had  a  good  look  at  each  other,  exploring  deep  into 
the  old  questions,  "What  are  you  and  what  do  you 
want?" 

"You  can't  run  a  motorboat  all  your  life,"  I  reminded 
her.  "What  are  you  going  to  tackle  next  ?" 

"Our  living-room,"  she  answered.  "I'm  going  to  have 
it  done  over  next  month." 

That  took  us  into  house  furnishings,  and  I  gave  her 
ideas  by  the  score.  I  had  never  thought  about  this  be 
fore,  but  now  I  thought  hard  and  eagerly — until  she 
brought  me  up  with  a  jerk,  by  pityingly  murmuring: 

"What  perfectly  frightful  taste  you  have.  It's  funny 
— because  you're  an  artist — you  really  write  quite  beau 
tiful  things." 

"I  don't  care,"  I  answered  grimly.  "I  can  see  that 
living-room " 

"So  can  I,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "But  so  long  as  you 
like  it,  that's  all  there  is  to  be  said.  You're  the  one  who 
has  to  live  in  it,  you  know.  Now  my  father  likes  a 
room " 

And  while  I  looked  gloomily  over  the  water  she  told 
me  what  her  father  liked. 

He  came  out  from  the  city  each  evening  by  train. 
He  refused  to  use  the  boat  these  days,  he  said  he  was 
so  infernally  busy  that  he  could  not  spare  the  time.  He 
brought  out  stacks  of  papers  and  plans  which  had  piled 
up  while  he  was  abroad,  and  with  these  he  busied  himself 
at  night.  And  though  Eleanore  from  the  veranda  glanced 
in  at  him  frequently,  she  never  again  caught  him  look 
ing  old.  And  when  she  went  in  to  make  him  stop  working 
he  smilingly  told  her  to  leave  him  alone.  He  smoked 
many  cigars  with  apparent  enjoyment,  his  lean  face 
wrinkling  over  the  smoke  as  he  turned  over  plan  after 
plan  for  the  harbor.  His  manner  to  me  was  if  any- 


THE    HARBOR  183 

thing  even  kindlier  than  before.  He  began  calling  me 
"Billy"  now. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  stay  he  said: 

"I  think  you're  the  man  I've  been  looking  for.  I've 
just  read  your  story  and  you've  done  exactly  what  I 
hoped.  You've  pictured  one  spot  of  efficiency  in  a  whole 
dreary  desert  of  waste.  Come  up  to  my  office  to-morrow 
at  ten." 


CHAPTER   XV 

So  at  last  I  went  up  to  the  tower. 

His  office  took  up  an  entire  floor  near  the  tapering 
top  of  the  building,  and  as  we  walked  slowly  around 
the  narrow  steel  balcony  outside,  a  tremendous  panorama 
unrolled  down  there  before  our  eyes.  We  could  see  every 
part  of  the  port  below  stretching  away  to  the  horizon, 
and  through  Dillon's  powerful  field  glass  I  saw  pictures 
of  all  I  had  seen  before  in  my  weary  weeks  of  trudging 
down  there  in  the  haze  and  dust.  Down  there  I  had 
felt  like  a  little  worm,  up  here  I  felt  among  the  gods. 
There  all  had  been  matter  and  chaos,  here  all  was  mind 
and  a  will  to  find  a  way  out  of  confusion.  The  glass 
gave  me  the  pictures  in  swift  succession,  in  a  moment 
I  made  a  leap  of  ten  miles,  and  as  I  listened  on  and  on 
to  the  quiet  voice  at  my  elbow,  the  pictures  all  came 
sweeping  together  as  parts  of  one  colossal  whole.  The 
first  social  vision  of  my  life  I  had  through  Dillon's  field 
glass. 

"To  see  any  harbor  or  city  or  state  as  a  whole,"  he 
said,  "is  what  most  Americans  cannot  do.  And  it's  what 
they've  got  to  learn  to  do." 

And  while  I  looked  where  he  told  me  to,  like  a  surgeon 
about  to  operate  he  talked  of  his  mighty  patient,  a  giant 
struggling  to  breathe,  with  swollen  veins  and  arteries. 
He  made  me  see  the  Hudson,  the  East  River  and  the 
railroad  lines  all  pouring  in  their  traffic,  to  be  shifted 
and  reloaded  onto  the  ocean  vessels  in  a  perfect  fever 
of  confusion  and  delay.  Far  below  us  you  could  see 
long  lines  of  tiny  trucks  and  wagons  waiting  hours  for 
a  chance  to  get  into  the  docksheds.  New  York,  he  said, 

184 


THE    HARBOR  185 

in  true  Yankee  style  had  developed  its  waterfront  pell 
mell,  each  railroad  and  each  ship  line  grabbing  sites  for 
its  own  use,  until  the  port  was  now  so  clogged,  so  tangled 
and  congested  that  it  was  able  to  grow  no  more. 

"And  it's  got  to  grow,"  he  said.  The  old  helter-skelter 
method  had  served  well  enough  in  years  gone  by,  for  this 
port  had  been  like  this  whole  bountiful  land,  its  natural 
advantages  had  been  so  prodigious  it  could  stand  all  our 
blind  and  hoggish  mistakes.  But  now  we  were  rapidly 
nearing  the  time  when  every  mistake  we  made  would  cost 
us  tens  of  millions  of  dollars.  For  within  a  few  years 
the  Big  Ditch  would  open  across  Panama,  and  the  com 
merce  of  South  America,  together  with  that  of  the  Orient, 
would  pour  into  the  harbor  here  to  meet  the  westbound 
commerce  of  Europe.  Ships  of  all  nations  would  steam, 
through  the  Narrows,  and  we  must  be  ready  to  welcome 
them  all,  with  an  ample  generous  harbor  worthy  of  the 
world's  first  port. 

"To  get  ready,"  he  said,  "what  we've  got  to  do  is  to 
organize  this  port  as  a  whole,  like  the  big  industrial 
plant  it  is." 

He  began  to  show  me  some  of  the  plans  in  blue-print 
maps  and  sketches.  I  saw  tens  of  thousands  of  freight 
cars  gathered  in  great  central  yards  at  a  few  main  strate 
gic  points  connected  by  long  tunnels  with  all  the  minor 
centers.  I  saw  the  port  no  longer  as  a  mere  body  of 
water,  but  with  a  whole  region  deep  beneath  of  these  long 
winding  tunnels  through  which  flowed  the  traffic  unseen 
and  unheard.  I  saw  along  the  waterfronts  continuous 
lines  of  docksheds  where  by  huge  cranes  and  other  devices 
the  loading  and  unloading  could  be  done  with  enormous 
saving  of  time.  Along  the  heavy  roofs  of  steel  of  these 
continuous  lines  of  buildings  stretched  wide  ocean  boule 
vards  with  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers  to  shut  out  the 
clamorous  life  below.  Warehouses  and  factory  buildings 
rose  in  solid  rows  behind.  The  city  was  to  build  them 
all,  and  the  city  as  the  landlord  was  to  invite  the  ships 


186  THE    HARBOR 

and  railroads,  and  the  manufacturers  too,  to  come  in  and 
get  together,  to  stop  their  fighting  and  grabbing  and  work 
with  each  other  in  one  great  plan. 

"That's  what  we  mean  nowadays  by  a  port,"  he  told 
me  at  the  end  of  our  talk.  "A  complicated  industrial  or 
gan,  the  heart  of  a  country's  circulation,  pumping  in 
and  out  its  millions  of  tons  of  traffic  as  quickly  and 
cheaply  as  possible.  That's  efficiency,  scientific  manage 
ment  or  just  plain  engineering,  whatever  you  want  to 
call  it.  But  it's  got  to  be  done  for  us  all  in  a  plan  in 
stead  of  each  for  himself  in  a  blind  struggling  chaos." 
•  ••••. 

I  came  down  from  the  tower  with  a  dazed,  excited 
feeling  which  lasted  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  That  har- 
'bor  of  confusion  had  been  for  months  my  entire  world, 
it  had  baffled  and  beaten  me  till  I  was  weak.  And  now 
this  man  had  swept  together  all  its  parts  and  showed  me 
one  immense  design. 

He  had  promised  me  the  first  use  of  his  plans.  With 
this  to  go  on  I  drafted  a  scheme  for  a  series  of  magazine 
articles  on  "The  First  Port  of  the  World,"  and  I  soon 
placed  it  in  advance  at  four  hundred  dollars  an  article. 
At  last  I  was  coming  up  in  life,  my  first  big  story  had 
begun! 

I  went  with  Dillon  each  week-end  up  to  the  cottage  on 
the  Sound.  Here  he  talked  in  detail  of  his  dreams,  and 
Eleanore  with  her  old  passion  and  pride  delighted  to  draw 
him  out  for  me.  And  not  only  her  father — for  to  help 
me  in  my  work  she  invited  out  here  in  the  evenings  many 
of  his  engineer  friends. 

"It  has  always  been  awfully  hard  for  me,"  she  con 
fided,  "to  understand  big  questions  by  reading  about  them 
out  of  books.  But  I  love  to  hear  about  them  from  men 
who  are  living  and  working  right  in  them.  I  love  to  feel 
a  little  how  it  must  be  to  be  living  their  lives." 

She  was  a  wonderful  listener,  for  she  had  quietly 
studied  each  man  until  now  she  had  a  kind  of  an 


THE    HARBOR  187 

instinct  for  drawing  the  very  best  of  him  out.  While 
he  talked  she  would  sit  with  her  sewing,  now  and 
then  putting  in  a  question  to  help.  Often  I  would  glance 
at  her  there  and  see  in  her  slightly  frowning  face  how 
intently  she  was  listening,  thinking  and  planning  to  help 
me.  Sometimes  she  would  meet  my  look.  I  would  grow 
tremendously  happy. 

"In  a  little  while,"  I  thought.  But  then  I  would  pull 
myself  up  with  a  jerk :  "Stop  looking  at  her,  you  young 
fool,  keep  your  mind  on  this  engineer.  You've  got  the 
chance  of  your  life  right  now  to  make  good  in  your  work 
and  be  happy.  Don't  fall  down !  Get  busy !" 

And  I  did.  I  threw  myself  into  the  lives  of  these  men 
who  were  the  living  embodiments  of  all  that  bigness,  bold 
ness,  punch  that  had  so  gripped  and  thrilled  me.  The 
harbor  had  drawn  them  around  it  out  of  the  hum  and 
rush  of  the  country,  and  here  they  were  in  its  service, 
watching  it,  studying,  planning  for  its  even  more  stu 
pendous  growth.  One  night  I  heard  them  discuss  the 
idea  of  moving  the  East  River,  making  it  flow  across 
Long  Island,  filling  in  its  old  water  bed  and  making 
ISTew  York  and  Brooklyn  one.  They  talked  of  this  scheme 
in  a  hard-headed  Yankee  way  that  made  me  forget  for 
the  moment  its  boldness,  until  some  cool  remark  opened 
my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  this  change  would  shift  vast 
populations,  plant  millions  of  people  this  way  and  that. 

But  against  these  men  of  the  tower,  with  their  wide, 
deliberate  views  ahead,  embracing  and  binding  together 
not  only  this  port  but  the  whole  western  world  depend 
ing  upon  it,  I  found  in  the  city  jungle  innumerable  petty 
men,  who  could  see  only  their  own  narrow  interests 
of  to-day,  and  who  fought  blindly  any  change  for  a 
to-morrow — fellows  in  such  mortal  fear  of  some  possible 
benefit  to  their  rivals  that  they  could  see  none  for  them 
selves.  They  were  hopelessly  used  to  fighting  each  other. 
And  I  came  to  feel  that  all  these  men,  though  many 
were  still  young  in  years,  belonged  to  a  generation  gone 


188  THE    HARBOR 

by,  to  the  age  of  individual  strife  that  my  father  had 
lived  and  worked  in — and  that  like  him  they  were  all 
soon  to  be  swept  to  one  side  by  the  inexorable  harbor 
of  to-day,  which  had  no  further  use  for  them. 

It  needed  bigger  men.  It  needed  men  like  Dillon  and 
behind  him  those  mysterious  powers  downtown,  the  men 
he  had  called  the  brains  of  the  nation,  who  read  the  signs 
of  the  new  times,  who  saw  that  the  West  was  now  fast 
filling  up,  that  the  eyes  of  the  nation  were  once  more 
turning  outward,  and  that  untold  resources  of  wealth  were 
soon  to  be  available  for  mighty  sea  adventures,  a  vast 
fleet  of  Yankee  ships  that  should  drive  the  surplus  out 
put  of  our  teeming  industries  into  all  markets  of  the 
world.  And  the  men  whc  saw  these  things  coming  were 
the  only  ones  who  were  big  enough  to  prepare  the  coun 
try  to  meet  them.  My  father's  dream  was  at  last  coming 
true — too  late  for  him  to  play  a  part.  He  had  been  but 
a  prophet,  a  lonely  pioneer. 

My  view  of  the  harbor  was  different  now.  I  had  seen 
it  before  as  a  vast  machine  molding  the  lives  of  all  peo 
ple  around  it.  But  now  behind  the  machine  itself  I  felt 
the  minds  of  its  molders.  I  saw  its  ponderous  masses 
of  freight,  its  multitudes  of  people,  all  pushed  and  shifted 
this  way  and  that  by  these  invisible  powers.  And  by 
degrees  I  made  for  myself  a  new  god,  and  its  name  was 
Efficiency. 

Here  at  last  was  a  god  that  I  felt  could  stand !  I  had 
made  so  many  in  years  gone  by,  I  had  been  making  them 
all  my  life — from  those  first  fearful  idols,  the  condors 
and  the  cannibals,  to  the  kind  old  god  of  goodness  in 
my  mother's  church  and  the  radiant  goddess  of  beauty 
and  art  over  there  in  Paris.  One  by  one  I  had  raised 
them  up,  and  one  by  one  the  harbor  had  flowed  in  and 
dra<:;red  them  down.  But  now  in  my  full  manhood  (for 
remember  I  was  twenty-five!)  I  had  found  and  taken 
to  myself  a  god  that  I  felt  sure  of.  ~No  harbor  could 
make  it  totter  and  fall.  For  it  was  armed  with  Science 


THE    HARBOR  189 

its  feet  stood  firm  on  mechanical  laws  and  in  its  head 
were  all  the  brains  of  all  the  strong  men  at  the  top. 

And  all  the  multitudes  below  seemed  mere  pigmies  to 
me  now.  I  remember  one  late  twilight,  coming  back  from 
a  talk  with  an  engineer,  I  boarded  a  ferry  at  the  rush 
hour  and  watched  the  people  herd  on  like  sheep.  How 
small  they  seemed,  how  petty  their  thoughts  compared 
to  mine,  how  blind  their  views  of  the  harbor. 

Here  was  a  little  Italian  bride,  just  landed,  by  the 
looks  of  her.  She  kept  her  face  close  to  her  lover's,  smil 
ing  dazedly  into  his  eyes.  And  she  saw  no  harbor. 
Here  near  by  was  a  fat  old  gentleman  with  a  highly 
painted  young  lady  who  laughed  and  swore  softly  at  him 
as  I  passed.  I  sat  down  beside  them  a  moment  an*d 
listened.  The  old  gentleman  seemed  quite  mad  with 
desire.  He  was  pleading  eagerly,  whining.  And  he  saw 
no  harbor.  Close  by  sat  two  tall  serious  men.  One  was 
deep  in  a  socialist  bool-c,  the  other  in  news  of  the  Giants. 
Both  seemed  equally  absorbed.  And  they  saw  no  har 
bor.  I  moved  on  to  another  spot,  and  sitting  down  by 
a  thin  seedy-looking  Irish  girl  I  heard  her  talk  to  her 
husband  about  having  their  baby's  life  insured  according 
to  a  wonderful  plan  an  agent  had  described  to  her.  As  she 
spoke  she  was  frowning  anxiously — and  she  saw  no  har 
bor.  Not  far  away  a  plump  flashy  young  creature  was 
smiling  down  on  the  bootblack  who  was  busily  shining 
her  small  patent  leather  shoes.  Her  bright  blue  petti 
coat  lifted  high  displayed  the  most  enticing  charms,  and 
as  now  she  turned  to  look  off  toward  the  lights  of  the 
city  ahead,  she  smiled  gaily  to  herself.  And  she  saw 
no  harbor.  And  alone  up  at  the  windy  bow  I  found 
a  squat  husky  laborer  with  his  dirty  coat  and  shirt  thrown 
open  wide,  the  wind  on  his  bare  hairy  chest,  hungrily 
watching  the  dock  ahead  as  though  for  his  supper — seeing 
no  harbor,  no  world's  first  port,  no  plans  for  vast  fleets 
or  a  great  canal,  none  of  the  big  things  shaping  his  life. 

But   I   saw.      Orders  had  gone   out  from   the   tower 


190  THE    HARBOR 

east  and  west  and  south  and  north  to  show  me  every 
courtesy.  And  with  a  miraculous  youthful  ease  I  un 
derstood  all  that  I  saw  and  heard.  The  details  all  fitted 
right  into  the  whole,  or  if  they  didn't  I  made  them  fit. 
Here  was  a  splendid  end  to  chaos  and  blind  wrestling 
with  life.  And  feeling  stronger  and  more  sure  than 
ever  in  my  life  before,  I  set  out  to  build  my  series  of 
glory  stories  about  it  all,  laying  on  the  color  thick 
to  reach  a  million  pigmy  readers,  grip  them,  pull  them 
out  of  their  holes,  make  them  sit  up  and  rub  their  eyes. 

For  I  was  now  a  success  in  life!  The  exuberant  joy 
of  youth  and  success  filled  the  whole  immense  region  for 
me.  In  those  Fall  days  there  was  nothing  too  hard  to 
try,  no  queer  hours  too  exhausting,  no  deep  corner  too 
remote,  in  the  search  for  my  material.  I  saw  the  place 
from  an  old  fisherman's  boat  and  from  a  revenue  launch 
at  night,  with  its  searchlight  combing  the  waters  far 
and  wide  for  smugglers.  I  saw  it  from  big  pilot  boats 
that  put  far  out  to  sea  to  meet  the  incoming  liners.  I 
ate  many  good  suppers  and  slept  long  nights  on  a  stout 
jolly  tug  called  The  Happy,  where  from  my  snug  bunk 
at  the  stern  through  the  open  door  I  could  watch  the 
stars.  I  went  down  into  tunnels  deep  beneath  the  waters. 
I  went  often  to  the  Navy  Yard.  I  dined  many  nights  on 
battleships,  where  the  talk  of  the  naval  officers  recalled 
my  father's  picture  of  a  fighting  ocean  world.  They 
too  talked  of  the  Big  Canal,  but  in  terms  of  war  in 
stead  of  peace.  I  went  out  to  the  coast  defenses,  and 
with  an  army  major  I  made  a  tour  of  the  lights  and 
buoys. 

And  perhaps  more  often  than  anywhere  else,  I  went 
to  a  rude  log  cabin  on  the  side  of  a  wooded  hill  high 
up  on  Staten  Island,  where  lived  a  Norwegian  engineer. 
He  had  a  cozy  den  up  there,  with  book-shelves  set  into 
the  logs,  two  deep  bunks,  a  few  bright  rugs  on  the  rough 
floor,  some  soft,  ponderous  leather  chairs  and  a  crackling 
little  stove  on  which  we  cooked  delicious  suppers.  Later 


THE   HARBOR  191 

out  on  the  narrow  porch  we  would  puff  lazy  smoke  wreaths 
and  watch  the  vast  valley  of  lights  below,  from  the  dis 
tant  twinkling  arch  of  the  Bridge  to  the  sparkling  towers 
of  old  Coney.  Down  there  like  swarms  of  fire-flies  were 
countless  darting  skurrying  lights,  red  and  blue  and  green 
and  white.  Far  off  to  the  south  flashed  the  light  of  the 
Hook,  and  still  other  signals  gleamed  low  from  the  ocean. 

Hero  I  came  often  with  Eleanore,  for  she  had  now 
come  back  to  town.  In  her  boat  we  went  to  many  new 
spots  and  back  to  all  the  old  ones.  We  found  new  beauties 
in  them  all.  At  home  in  the  evenings  we  had  long  talks. 
And  all  the  time  I  could  feel  that  we  two  both  knew 
what  was  coming,  that  steadily  we  were  drawing  together, 
that  all  my  work  and  my  view  of  the  harbor  took  its 
joy  and  its  glory  from  this. 

"In  a  little  while,"  I  thought. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

I  HAD  been  little  at  home  those  days,  for  the  house  in 
Brooklyn  disturbed  me  now.  Poor  old  Dad.  Since  I 
had  secured  my  contract  he  had  tried  so  hard  to  help 
me,  to  be  eager,  interested,  alive,  to  talk  it  all  over  with 
me  at  night.  And  this  I  did  not  like  to  do.  A  vague 
feeling  of  guilt  and  disloyalty  would  creep  into  my  now 
boundless  zest  for  the  harbor  that  had  crowded  him  out. 
And  I  think  that  he  suspected  this.  One  night,  when 
with  this  feeling  I  stupidly  tried  to  talk  as  though  I  still 
hated  all  its  ugliness,  its  clamor,  smoke  and  grime,  I 
caught  a  twinkle  of  pain  in  his  eyes. 

"Boy,"  he  broke  in  roughly,  "I  hope  you'll  always  talk 
and  write  what  you  believe  and  nothing  else !  I  wouldn't 
give  a  picayune  for  any  chap  who  didn't!" 

I  could  feel  him  watching  anxiously  my  affair  with 
Eleanore.  In  the  days  when  she  had  come  to  the  house 
he  had  grown  very  fond  of  her,  and  now  by  frequent 
questions,  slipped  in  with  a  studied  indifference,  he  showed 
an  interest  which  in  time  became  a  deep  suspense. 

"Out  again  this  evening,  son?"  he  called  in  one  night 
from  the  bathroom  where  he  was  washing  his  hands  and 
jface  before  going  down  to  supper.  In  my  room  adjoining 
/  I  was  dressing  to  go  out. 

"Yes,  Dad." 

"What  for?" 

"Some  work." 

"Be  out  for  dinner  too  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  with?" 

"Oh,  a  pilot,"  I  answered  abstractedly.     I  was  won- 

192 


THE   HARBOR  193 

dering  if  she  would  wear  her  blue  gown.  She  had  asked 
quite  a  number  of  people  that  night.  Then  I  saw  Dad 
in  the  doorway.  Briskly  rubbing  his  gray  head  with  a 
towel,  he  was  eyeing  my  evening  clothes. 

"Devilish  polished  chaps  these  days — pilots,"  he  com 
mented.  I  heard  a  low  snort  of  glee  from  his  room. 

My  sister,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no  more  patience 
than  before  with  this  fast  deepening  love  of  mine,  which 
had  drawn  me  away  from  her  radical  friends  up  to  the 
men  of  the  tower  who  worked  for  the  big  companies.  By 
the  most  vigorous  ironies,  the  most  industrious  witty 
remarks,  she  made  .me  feel  how  thoroughly  she  disap 
proved  of  anything  so  deadening  as  marriage,  home  and 
settling  down,  in  this  glorious  age  of  new  ideas. 

One  morning  at  breakfast,  when  I  remarked  as  I  com 
monly  did  that  I  would  be  out  for  dinner  that  night, 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"To  Eleanore  Dillon's,"  I  replied.  Our  eyes  met 
squarely  for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  means  to  go  there  so  often,  al 
most  every  night?"  she  asked. 

"I  do,"  I  answered  bluntly.  I  would  finish  this  med 
dling  once  and  for  all.  But  Sue  did  not  look  finished. 

"You'd  betler  stay  home  to-night,  Billy,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"Joe  Kramer  is  coming." 

"What  ?" 

"He  telephoned  me  late  last  night.  He's  just  come 
from  Colorado  and  he  sails  to-morrow  for  England.  He's 
awfully  anxious  to  see  you." 

Of  course  he  was,  and  I  knew  what  about !  I  saw  at 
once  by  the  look  on  her  face  that  Sue  had  told  him  all 
about  me  and  had  begged  him  to  see  what  he  could  do. 
Why  couldn't  they  leave  a  fellow  alone,  I  said  wrathfully 
to  myself. 

But  my  ire  softened  when  I  met  Joe.  In  the  year  and 
a  half  since  I  had  seen  him  the  lines  in  his  face  had  deep- 


194  THE    HAKBOR 

ened,  the  stoop  of  his  big  shoulders  had  grown  even  more 
pronounced,  and  again  I  felt  that  wistful,  frowning, 
searching  quality  in  him.  Beneath  his  gruffness  and  his 
jeers  he  was  so  honestly  pushing  on  for  what  he  could 
find  most  real  in  life.  A  wave  of  the  old  affection  came 
over  me  suddenly  without  warning.  Vaguely  I  wondered 
about  it.  Why  did  he  always  grip  me  so? 

My  father  too  appeared  at  first  delighted  to  see  him. 
He  had  shown  a  keen  relish  for  J.  K.  from  that  first  time 
in  college  when  I  had  brought  him  home  for  Christmas. 
Since  then,  whenever  Joe  had  come,  he  and  Dad  had 
always  managed  to  retreat  to  the  study  together  and 
smoke  and  have  long  dogged  arguments.  But  to-night  it 
was  not  the  same.  For  in  his  growth  as  a  radical,  Joe 
had  gone  beyond  all  arguing  now.  Lines  of  deep  dis 
pleasure  slowly  tightened  on  Dad's  face.  All  through 
dinner  he  kept  attempting  to  turn  the  talk  from  Joe's 
Work  to  mine.  But  this  I  would  have  none  of,  I  wanted  to 
be  let  alone.  So  I  nervously  kept  the  conversation  on 
what  Joe  was  up  to.  And  Sue  seemed  more  than  eager 
to  learn. 

J.  K.  was  up  to  a  good  deal. 

"This  muckraking  game  is  played  out,"  he  said.  "We 
all  know  how  rotten  things  are.  All  we  want  to  know  now 
is  what's  to  be  done."  And  he  himself  had  become  ab 
sorbed  in  what  the  working  class  was  doing.  As  a  re 
porter  in  the  West  he  had  been  to  strike  after  strike, 
ending  with  a  long  ugly  struggle  in  the  Colorado  mines. 
He  talked  about  it  intensely,  the  greed  of  the  mine  own-  ,< 
ers,  the  brutality  of  the  militia,  the  "bull  pens"  into  which 
strikers  were  thrown.  Vaguely  I  felt  he  was  giving  us 
a  most  distorted  picture,  and  glancing  now  and  then 
at  my  father  I  saw  that  he  thought  it  a  pack  of  lies.  Joe 
made  all  the  strikers  the  most  heroic  figures,  and  he  spoke 
of  their  struggle  as  only  a  part  of  a  great  labor  war  that 
was  soon  to  sweep  the  entire  land. 

Sue  excitedly  drew  him  out,  and  I  felt  it  was  all  for  my 


THE   HAKBOR  195 

benefit  Joe  said  that  he  was  going  abroad  in  order 
that  he  might  write  the  truth  about  the  labor  world 
•over  there.  The  American  papers  and  magazines  would 
let  you  write  the  truth,  he  said,  about  labor  over  in 
Europe,  because  it  was  at  a  safe  distance.  But  they 
wouldn't  allow  it  here.  And  then  Sue  looked  across  at 
me  as  though  to  say,  "It's  only  stuff  like  yours  they  al 
low." 

"Why  don't  you  two  go  out  for  a  walk  ?"  she  suggested 
sweetly  after  dinner.  And  I  consented  gladly,  for  there 
are  times  when  nothing  on  earth  can  be  worse  than  your 
own  sister. 

We  went  down  to  the  old  East  River  docks  and  walked 
for  some  time  with  little  said.  Then  Joe  turned  on  me 
abruptly. 

"Well,  Bill,"  he  said,  "I've  read  your  stuff.  It's  damn 
well  written." 

"Thanks,"  I  replied. 

"If  I've  got  any  knocking  to  do,"  he  went  on  with  a 
visible  effort,  "I  know  you'll  give  me  credit  for  not  knock- 
'ing  out  of  jealousy.  I'm  not  jealous,  I'm  honestly  tickled 
to  death.  I  was  wrong  about  you  in  Paris.  You  and  me 
were  different  kinds.  What  you  got  over  there  was  just 
what  you  needed,  it  has  put  you  already  way  out  of  my 
class,  and  it's  going  to  give  you  a  lot  of  power  as  a  spreader 
of  ideas.  That's  why  I  hate  so  like  the  devil  to  see  you 
starting  out  like  this,  with  what  I'm  so  sure  are  the 
wrong  ideas." 

"Ilow  are  they  wrong?" 

"Think  a  minute.  Why  is  your  magazine  pushing 
you  so?  The  first  story  of  your  series  is  only  just  out 
and  they've  already  boomed  you  all  over  the  country. 
Why,  Bill,  I  saw  your  picture  in  a  trolley  car  in  Den 
ver — and  you're  only  twenty-five  years  old!  It's  damn 
fine  writing,  I'll  say  it  again,  but  that's  not  reason  enough 
for  this.  You've  got  to  go  down  deeper  and  look  into 


196  THE   HARBOR 

your  magazine's  policy — which  is  to  strike  a  balance  for 
all  kinds  of  middle-class  readers  and  for  their  advertisers 
too.  They've  run  some  radical  stuff  this  year,  and  they're 
booming  you  now  to  balance  off,  to  show  how  'safe  and 
sane'  they  can  be  in  the  way  they  look  at  life,  at  big 
business  and  at  industry — as  you  do  here  in  the  harbor. 
You're  making  gods  out  of  the  men  at  the  top,  you've 
seen  'em  as  they  see  themselves,  and  you've  only  seen 
what  they  see  here.  You've  missed  all  the  millions  of 
people  here  who  depend  on  the  place  for  their  jobs  and 
their  lives.  They  don't  count  for  you " 

"That's  not  true  at  all!"  I  interrupted  hotly.  "It's 
just  for  them  and  their  children  that  fellows  like  Dillon 
are  on  the  job — to  make  a  better  harbor!" 

"For  them,  for  the  people!"  said  Joe.  "That's  what 
I'm  kicking  at  in  you,  Bill — you  treat  us  all  like  a  mass 
of  dubs  that  need  gods  above  to  do  everything  for  us 
because  we  can't  do  it  all  by  ourselves !" 

"I  don't  believe  the  people  can,"  I  retorted.  "From 
what  I've  seen  I  honestly  don't  believe  they  count.  The 
fellows  that  count  in  a  job  like  this  are  the  fellows  with 
punch  and  grit  enough  to  fight  their  way  up  out  of  the 
ranks " 

"I  know,  and  be  lieutenants  and  captains  in  a  regular 
army  of  peace,  with  your  friend  Dillon  in  command  and 
Wall  Street  in  command  of  him !  Isn't  that  your  view  ?" 

"All  right,  it  is!  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  that.  It's 
the  only  safe  way  that  I  can  see  out  of  this  mess  of  a 
harbor  we've  got.  These  men  are  the  efficient  ones — 
they're  the  fellows  that  have  the  brains  and  that  know  how 
to  work — to  use  science,  money,  everything — to  get  a  de 
cent  world  ahead.  What's  the  matter  with  efficiency?" 

"Your  latest  god,"  sneered  J.  K. 

"Suppose  it  is!  What's  wrong  with  it?  What's  the 
matter  with  Dillon?  Is  he  a  crook?" 

"No,"  said  Joe,  "that's  just  the  worst  of  him.  He's 
so  damned  honest,  he's  such  a  hard  worker.  I've  met 


THE   HARBOR  197 

men  like  him  all  over  the  country,  and  they're  the  most 
dangerous  men  we've  got.  Because  they're  the  real 
strength  of  Wall  Street — just  as  thousands  of  clean  hard 
working  priests  are  the  strength  of  the  Catholic 
church !  They  keep  their  church  going  and  Dillon  keeps 
his — he's  a  regular  priest  of  big  business !  And  he  takes 
hold  of  kids  like  you  and  molds  your  views  like  his  for 
life.  Look  at  what  he  has  done  with  you  here.  Does 
lie  say  a  word  to  you  about  Graft?  Does  he  talk  of  the 
INbrth  Atlantic  Pool  or  any  one  of  the  other  pools  and 
schemes  by  which  they  keep  up  rates?  Does  he  make 
you  think  about  low  wages  and  long  hours  and  all  the 
fellows  hurt  or  killed  on  the  docks  and  in  the  stoke  holes  ? 
Does  he  give  you  any  feeling  at  all  of  this  harbor  as  a 
city  of  four  million  people,  most  of  'em  getting  a  raw 
deal  and  getting  mad  about  it  ?  That's  more  important 
to  you  and  me  than  all  the  efficiency  gods  on  earth.  You've 
got  to  decide  which  side  you're  on.  And  that's  what's 
got  me  talking  now.  I  see  so  plain  which  way  you're 
letting  yourself  be  pulled.  I've  seen  so  many  pulled 
the  same  way.  It's  so  pleasant  up  there  at  the  top,  there's 
so  much  money  and  brains  up  there  and  refinement — 
such  women  to  get  married  to,  such  homes  to  settle  down 
in.  Sometimes  I  wish  every  promising  radical  kid  in 
the  country  could  get  himself  into  some  scandal  that 
would  cut  him  off  for  life  from  any  chance  of  being  re 
ceived  by  this  damned  respectable  upper  class!" 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  gruff  in 
tensity  : 

"We  need  you,  Bill,"  he  ended.  "We  need  you  bad. 
We  don't  want  you  to  marry  a  girl  at  the  top.  We  don't 
want  you  anchored  up  there  for  life." 

We  were  standing  still  now,  and  I  was  looking  out  on 
the  river.  Through  the  grip  of  his  hand  on  my  arm  I 
could  feel  his  body  taut  and  quivering,  his  whole  spirit 
hot  with  revolt.  The  same  old  Joe,  but  tenser  now, 
strained  almost  to  the  breaking  point.  But  I  myself 


198  THE    HARBOR 

was  different.  In  college  he  had  appealed  to  me  because 
there  I  was  groping  and  had  found  nothing.  But  now  I 
had  found  something  sure.  And  so,  though  to  my  own 
surprise  a  deep  emotional  part  of  me  rose  up  in  sudden 
response  to  Joe  and  made  me  feel  guilty  to  hold  back,  it 
was  only  for  a  moment,  and  then  my  mind  told  me  he 
was  wrong.  Poor  old  J.  K.  What  a  black  distorted  view 
he  had — grown  out  of  a  distorted  life  of  traveling  con 
tinually  from  one  center  of  trouble  to  another.  How 
could  he  be  any  judge  of  life  ? 

"Look  here,  Joe,"  I  said.  "I'm  a  kid,  as  you  say,  and 
some  day  I  may  see  your  side  of  this.  But  I  don't  now, 
I  can't — for  since  I  left  Paris  I've  been  through  enough 
to  make  me  feel  what  a  job  living  is,  I  mean  really  living 
and  growing.  And  I  know  what  a  difference  Dillon  has 
made.  He  has  been  to  my  life  what  he  is  to  this  harbor. 
And  I'm  not  old  enough  nor  strong  enough  to  throw 
over  a  man  as  big  as  that  and  as  honest  and  clean  in  his 
thinking,  and  throw  myself  in  with  your  millions  of  peo 
ple,  who  seem  to  me  either  mighty  poor  thinkers  or  fel 
lows  who  don't  think  at  all.  They're  not  in  my  line.  I 
believe  in  men  who  can  think  clean,  who  have  trained 
their  minds  by  years  of  hard  work,  who  don't  try  to  tear 
down  and  bring  things  to  a  smash,  but  are  always  build 
ing,  building!  You  talk  about  this  upper  class.  But 
they're  my  people,  aren't  they,  that's  where  I  was  born. 
And  I'm  going  on  with  them.  I  believe  they're  right  and 
I  know  they're  strong — I  mean  strong  enough  to  handle 
all  this — make  it  better." 

"They'll  make  it  worse,"  Joe  answered.  And  then 
as  he  turned  to  me  once  more  he  added  very  bitterly, 
"You'll  see  strength  enough  in  the  people  some  day." 

A  few  moments  later  he  left  me. 

I  looked  at  my  watch  and  found  it  was  not  yet  nine 
o'clock.  I  went  to  Eleanore  Dillon.  And  within  an 
hour  Joe  and  his  world  of  crowds  and  confusion  were 
swept  utterly  out  of  my  mind. 


CHAPTEK    XVII 

I  HAD  often  told  Eleanore  of  Joe.  She  had  asked  me 
about  him  many  times.  "It's  queer,"  she  had  said,  "what 
a  hold  he  must  have  had  on  you.  I  feel  sure  he's  just  the 
kind  of  a  person  I  wouldn't  like  and  who  wouldn't  like 
me.  I  don't  think  he's  really  your  kind  either,  and  yet 
he  has  a  hold  on  you  still.  Yes,  he  has,  I  can  feel  he 
has." 

And  to-night  when  I  told  her  that  I  had  been  with 
him, 

"What  did  he  want  of  you?"  she  asked. 

"He  wants  me  to  drop  everything,"  I  answered.  And 
I  tried  to  give  her  some  idea  of  what  he  had  said. 

But  as  I  talked,  the  thought  came  suddenly  into  my 
mind  that  here  at  last  was  the  very  time  to  settle  my 
life  one  way  or  the  other,  to  ask  her  if  she  would  be  my 
wife.  I  grew  excited  and  confused,  my  voice  sounding 
unnatural  to  my  ears.  And  as  I  talked  on  about  Joe, 
my  heart  pounding,  I  could  barely  keep  the  thoughts  in 
line. 

"And  I  don't  want  what  he  wants,"  I  ended  des 
perately.  "That  nor  anything  like  it.  I  want  just  what 
I've  been  getting — just  this  kind  of  work  and  life.  And 
I  want  you — for  life,  I  mean — if  you  can  ever  feel  like 
that." 

Eleanore  said  nothing.  In  an  instant  the  world  and 
everything  in  it  had  narrowed  to  the  two  of  us.  The 
intensity  was  unbearable.  I  rose  abruptly  and  turned 
away.  I  felt  suddenly  far  out  of  my  depth.  Confusedly 
and  furiously  I  felt  that  I  had  bungled  things,  that  here 
was  something  in  life  so  strange  I  could  do  nothing  with 

199 


200  THE    HARBOR 

it.  What  a  young  fool  I  was  to  have  thought  she  could 
ever  care  for  a  fellow  like  me !  I  felt  she  must  be  smiling. 
Despairingly  I  turned  to  see. 

And  Eleanore  was  smiling — in  a  way  that  steadied 
me  in  a  flash.  For  her  smile  was  so  plainly  a  quick, 
strong  effort  to  steady  herself. 

"I'm  glad  you  want  me  like  that,"  she  said,  in  a  voice';' 
that  did  not  sound  like  hers.  "I  don't  believe  in  hiding 
things.  .  .  .  I'm — very  happy."  She  looked  down  at  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  they  slowly  locked  together.  "But 
of  course  it  means  our  whole  lives,  you  see — and  we 
mustn't  hurry  or  make  a  mistake.  !Now  that  we  know 
— this  much — we  can  talk  about  it  quite  openly — about 
each  other  and  what  we  want — what  kinds  of  lives — what 
we  believe  in — whether  we'd  be  best  for  each  other.  It's 
what  we  ought  to  talk  about — a  good  many  times — it 
may  be  weeks." 

"All  right,"  I  agreed.  I  was  utterly  changed.  At  her 
first  words  I  had  felt  a  deep  rush  of  relief,  and  see 
ing  her  tremendous  pluck  and  the  effort  she  was  mak 
ing,  I  pitied,  worshiped  and  loved  her  all  in  the  same 
moment.  And  as  we  talked  on  for  a  few  minutes  more 
in  that  grave  and  unnaturally  sensible  way  about  the  pros 
and  cons  of  it  all,  these  feelings  within  me  mounted  so 
swiftly  that  all  at  once  I  again  broke  off. 

"I  don't  believe  there's  any  use  in  this,"  I  declared. 
"It's  perfectly  idiotic!" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  she  promptly  agreed. 

And  then  after  a  rigid  instant  when  each  of  us  looked 
at  the  other  as  though  asking,  "Quick!  What  are  we 
going  to  do?" — she  burst  out  laughing  excite uly.  So  did 
I,  and  that  carried  her  into  my  arms  and — I  remember 
nothing — until  after  a  while  she  asked  me  to  go,  because 
she  wanted  to  be  by  herself.  And  I  noticed  how  bright 
and  wet  were  her  eyes. 

I  saw  them  still  in  the  darkness  down  along  the  river 
front,  where  I  walked  for  half  the  rest  of  the  night, 


THE    HARBOR  201 

stopping  to  draw  a  deep  breath  of  the  sea  and  laugh  ex 
citedly  and  go  on. 

•  ••••• 

Life  changed  rapidly  after  that  night.  I  grew  so  ab 
sorbed  in  Eleanore  and  in  all  that  was  waiting  just  ahead, 
that  it  was  hard  not  to  shut  out  everything  else,  most 
"^of  all  impersonal  things.  It  was  hard  to  write,  and  for 
Mays  I  wrote  nothing.  I  remember  only  intimate  talks. 
Everyone  I  talked  to  seemed  to  be  deeply  personal. 

I  told  my  father  about  it  the  next  evening  before  sup 
per.  I  found  him  in  his  old  chair  in  the  study  buried 
deep  in  his  paper. 

"Say,  Dad — would  you  mind  coming  up  to  your  room  ?" 
He  smote  his  paper  to  one  side. 

"What  the  devil,"  he  asked,  "do  I  want  to  come  up  to 
my  room  for?" 

"I've — the  fact  is  I've  something  you  ought  to  know." 
I  could  hear  Sue  in  the  other  room. 

"All  right,  my  boy,"  he  said  nervously.  As  he  fol 
lowed  me  he  kept  clearing  his  throat.  Sue  must  have 
guessed  and  prepared  him.  In  his  room  he  fussed  about, 
grunted  hard  over  getting  off  his  shoes  and,  finding  his 
slippers,  then  lay  back  on  his  sofa  with  his  hands  behind 
his  head  and  uttered  an  explosive  sigh. 

"All  right,  son,  now  fire  ahead,"  he  said  jocosely.  I 
loved  him  at  that  moment. 

"You  know  Eleanore  Dillon,"  I  began. 

"She  turned  you  down!" 

"No!     She  took  me!" 

"The  devil  you  say!"  He  sat  bolt  upright,  staring. 
"Well,  my  boy,  I'm  very  glad,"  he  said  thickly.  His  eyes 
were  moist.  "I'm  glad — glad !  She's  a  fine  girl — strong 
character — strong!  I  wish  your  poor  mother  were  alive 
— she'd  b©  happy — this  girl  will  make  a  good  wife — you 
must  bring  her  right  here  to  live  with  us!" 

And  so  he  talked  on,  his  voice  trembling.  Then  out 
of  his  confusion  rose  the  money  question,  and  at  once 


£02  THE    HARBOR 

his  mind  grew  clear.  And  to  my  surprise  he  urged  me  to 
lose  no  time  in  looking  around  for  "some  good,  steady 
position"  in  a  magazine  office.  My  writing  I  could  do  at 
night. 

"It's  so  uncertain  at  best,"  he  said.  "It's  nothing  you 
can  count  on.  And  you've  got  to  think  of  a  wife  and 
children.  Her  father  has  no  money  saved." 

I  found  he'd  been  looking  Dillon  up,  and  this  jarred 
on  me  horribly.  But  still  worse  was  his  lack  of  faith  in 
my  writing.  I  was  making  four  hundred  dollars  a  month, 
and  it  was  a  most  unpleasant  jolt  to  have  it  taken  so 
lightly. 

I  went  down  to  Sue.  As  I  came  into  the  living  room 
she  met  me  suddenly  at  the  door.  In  a  moment  her  arms 
were  about  my  neck  and  she  was  saying  softly : 

"I  know  what  it  is,  dear,  and  I'm  glad — I'm  awfully 
glad.  If  I've  been  horrid  about  it  ever,  please  forgive 
me.  I'm  sure  now  it's  just  the  life  you  want!" 

And  that  evening,  while  Dad  slept  in  his  chair,  Sue 
and  I  had  a  long  affectionate  talk.  We  drew  closer  than 
we  had  been  for  months.  She  was  eager  to  hear  every 
thing,  she  wanted  to  know  all  our  plans.  When  I  tried 
at  last  to  turn  our  talk  to  herself  and  our  affairs  at  home, 
at  first  she  would  not  hear  to  it. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said  affectionately,  "you've  had 
these  worries  long  enough.  You're  to  run  along  now  and 
be  happy  and  leave  this  house  to  Dad  and  me." 

I  slipped  my  arm  around  her: 

"Look  here,  Sis,  let's  see  this  right.  You  can't  run 
here  on  what  Dad  earns,  and  if  you  try  to  work  yourself 
you'll  only  hurt  him  terribly.  My  idea  is  to  help  as 
before,  without  letting  him  know  that  I'm  doing  it.  Make 
him  think  you've  cut  expenses." 

It  took  a  long  time  to  get  her  consent. 

The  next  night  I  went  to  Eleanore's  father.  He  re 
ceived  me  quietly,  and  with  a  deep  intensity  under  that 
steady  smile  of  his,  which  reminded  me  so  much  of 


THE   HARBOR  203 

hers,  he  spoke  of  all  she  had  meant  to  him  and  of  her 
brave  search  for  a  big,  happy  life.  He  told  how  he 
had  watched  her  with  me  slowly  making  up  her  mind. 

"It  took  a  long  time,  but  it's  made  up  now,"  he  said, 
"And  now  that  it  is,  she's  the  kind  that  will  go  through 
anything  for  you  that  can  ever  come  up  in  your  life." 
He  looked  at  me  squarely,  still  smiling  a  little,  frankly 
letting  his  new  affection  come  into  his  eyes.  "I  wish  I 
knew  all  that's  going  to  happen,"  he  added,  almost  sadly. 
"I  hope  you'll  get  used  to  telling  me  things — talking 
things  over — anything — no  matter  what — where  I  can  be 
of  the  slightest  help." 

Then  he,  too,  spoke  of  money.  He  meant  to  keep  up  her 
allowance,  he  said,  and  he  had  insured  his  life  for  her. 
Again,  as  with  my  father,  I  felt  that  disturbing  lack  of 
faith  in  my  work.  I  spoke  of  it  to  Eleanore  and  she 
looked  at  me  indignantly. 

"You  must  never  think  of  it  like  that,"  she  said.  "I 
won't  have  you  writing  for  money.  Dad  has  never  worked 
that  way  and  you're  not  to  do  it  on  any  account — least 
of  all  on  account  of  me.  Whatever  you  make  we'll  live 
on,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  be  said — except  that  we'll 
live  splendidly,"  she  added  very  gaily,  "and  we  won't 
spend  the  finest  part  of  our  lives  saving  up  for  rainy 
days.  We'll  take  care  of  the  rain  when  it  rains,  and  we'll 
have  some  wonderful  times  while  we  can." 

We  decided  at  once  on  a  trip  abroad  as  soon  as  I  had 
finished  my  work.  And  I  remember  writing  hard,  and 
reading  it  aloud  to  her  and  rewriting  over  and  over 
again,  for  Eleanore  could  be  severe.  But  I  remember, 
too,  more  trips  in  her  boat  to  gather  the  last  odds  and 
ends.  I  remembc?  how  the  big  harbor  took  on  a  new 
glory  to  our  eyes,  mingled  with  all  the  deep  personal  joys 
and  small  troubles  and  crises  we  went  through,  the  puz 
zles  and  the  questionings  and  the  glad  discoveries  that 
made  up  the  swift  growth  of  our  love. 

And  though  I  never  once  thought  of  Joe  Kramer,  he 


204  THE    HARBOR 

had  prophesied  aright.  I  belonged  wholly  now  to  Dil 
lon's  world,  a  world  of  clean  vigorous  order  that  seemed 
to  welcome  me  the  more  as  I  wrote  in  praise  of  its  power. 
And  happy  over  my  success,  and  in  love  and  starting  life 
anew  with  all  the  signs  so  bright — how  could  I  have 
any  doubts  of  my  harbor? 

We  were  married  very  quietly  late  one  April  afternoon. 
It  rained,  I  remember,  all  that  day,  but  the  next  was 
bright  and  clear  for  our  sailing.  In  our  small  stateroom 
on  the  ship  we  found  a  note  from  the  company,  a  large, 
engraved  impressive  affair,  presenting  their  best  wishes 
and  asking  us  to  accept  for  the  voyage  one  of  their  most 
luxurious  cabins. 

"This  is  what  comes,"  said  Eleanore  gaily,  "of  being 
the  wife  of  a  writer." 

"Or  the  daughter,"  I  said  softly,  "of  a  very  wonderful 
engineer." 

"You  darling  boy!" 

We  moved  up  to  a  large  sunny  cabin.  I  remember  her 
swiftly  reading  the  telegrams  and  letters  there  as  though 
to  get  them  all  out  of  the  way.  I  remember  her  un 
packing  and  taking  possession  of  our  first  home. 

"We're  married,  aren't  we,"  said  a  voice. 

There  was  only  one  more  good-by  to  be  said.  On  the 
deck,  as  we  went  out  of  the  harbor,  Eleanore  stood  by 
the  rail.  I  felt  her  hand  close  tight  on  mine  and  I  saw 
her  eyes  glisten  a  little  with  tears. 

"What  a  splendid  place  it  has  been,"  she  said. 


CHAPTEK    XVIII 

WE  found  every  place  splendid  in  those  weeks  as  we 
let  the  wanderlust  carry  us  on.  And  as  though  emerging 
from  some  vivid  dream,  various  places  and  faces  of  peo 
ple  stand  out  in  my  memory  now,  as  then  they  loomed  in 
upon  our  absorption. 

I  remember  the  little  old  harbor  of  Cherbourg,  gleaming 
in  the  moonlight,  where  when  we  landed  Eleanore  said, 
"Let's  stay  here  awhile."  So  of  course  we  did,  and  then 
went  on  to  Paris.  We  took  an  apartment,  very  French 
and  absurdly  small,  from  a  former  Beaux  Arts  friend 
of  mine.  I  remember  the  kindly  face  of  the  maid  who 
took  such  beaming  care  of  us,  the  cafe  in  front  of  which 
late  at  night  we  sat  and  watched  the  huge  shadowy  carts 
go  by  on  their  way  to  the  market  halls,  the  sunrise  flower 
market,  where  we  filled  our  cab  with  moss  roses  and 
plants,  Polin's  songs  in  the  "Ambassadeurs,"  delicious 
petites  allees  in  the  Bois,  our  favorite  rides  on  the  tops 
of  the  'buses,  that  old  religious  place  of  mine  down  under 
the  bridge  by  JSTotre  Dame. 

All  these  and  more  we  saw  in  fragments,  now  and 
then,  looking  out  with  vivid  interest  on  all  the  life  around 
us,  only  to  return  to  each  other,  into  each  other  I  should 
say,  for  the  exploring  was  quite  different  now,  there  had 
been  such  hours  between  us  that  nothing  intimate  could 
be  held  back.  Nothing?  Well,  nothing  that  I  thought 
of  then.  For  somehow  or  other,  in  those  glad,  eager  after 
noons  and  evenings,  in  those  nights,  nothing  disturbingly 
ugly  in  me  so  much  as  thought  of  showing  its  head.  Three 
years  before  in  this  stirring  town  I  had  felt  guilty  at 
being  a  monk.  But  now  I  felt  no  guilt  at  all.  For  down 

205 


206  THE    HARBOR 

the  Champs  Elysees  our  eab  rolled  serenely  now,  and 
even  our  driver's  white  hat  wore  an  air  as  though  it  had 
a  place  in  life. 

From  Paris  we  started  for  Munich,  but  we  did  not 
stop  there,  we  happened  to  feel  like  going  on.  So  we 
went  through  to  Constantinople,  whence  we  took  a  boat 
to  Batoum  and  went  up  into  the  Caucasus,  which  Elea- 
nore  had  heard  about  once  from  an  engineer  friend  of 
her  father's.  I  remember  Koutais,  a  little  town  by  a 
mountain  torrent  with  gray  vine-covered  walls  around  it. 
Shops  opened  into  the  walls  like  stalls.  There  we  would 
buy  things  for  our  supper  and  then  in  a  crazy  vehicle  we 
would  drive  miles  out  on  the  broad  mountainside  to  an 
orchard  pink  with  blossoms,  where  we  would  build  a 
fire  and  cook,  and  an  old  man  in  a  long  yellow  robe  and 
with  a  turban  on  his  head  would  come  out  of  his  cabin 
and  bring  us  wine.  And  the  stars  would  appear  and 
the  frogs  tune  up  in  the  marshes  far  down  in  the  valley 
below,  and  the  filmy  mists  would  rise  and  the  mountains 
would  tower  overhead.  And  the  effect  of  this  place  upon 
us  was  to  make  us  feel  it  was  only  one  of  innumerable 
such  vacation  places  that  lay  ahead,  festival  spots  in 
long,  radiant  lives.  We  felt  this  vaguely,  ,  silently.  So 
often  we  talked  silently. 

Then  there  would  come  the  most  serious  times,  when 
with  the  deepest  thoughtfulness  we  would  survey  the  years 
ahead  and  very  solemnly  place  ourselves,  our  views  and 
beliefs.  Miraculous  how  agreed  we  were!  We  believed, 
we  found,  in  good  workmanship,  in  honest  building,  in 
getting  things  done.  We  believed  in  Eleanore's  father 
and  all  those  around  and  above  him  that  could  help  his 
kind  of  work.  We  were  impatient  of  soft-headedness  in 
rich  people  who  had  nothing  to  do,  and  of  heavy  muddle- 
headedness  in  the  millions  who  had  too  much  to  do,  and 
of  muckraking  of  every  kind  which  only  got  in  the  way 
of  the  builders.  Tor  the  building  of  a  new,  clean  vigor 
ous  world  was  our  religion.  And  it  did  not  seem  cold 


THE   HARBOR  207 

to  us,  because  our  lives  were  in  it  and  because  we  were 
in  love. 

There  was  no  end  to  the  plans  for  ourselves,  for  my 
writing,  our  home,  the  friends  we  wanted,  the  trips,  the 
books  and  the  music.  And  through  it  all  and  from  under 
it  all  there  kept  bursting  up  that  feeling  which  we  knew 
was  the  most  important  of  all,  the  exultant  realization 
that  we  two  were  just  starting  out. 

When  at  last  we  came  back  home  this  feeling  took  a" 
deeper  turn.  I  noticed  a  change  in  Eleanore.  She  had 
far  less  thought  and  time  for  me  now,  she  seemed  to  be 
strangely  absorbed  in  herself.  Nearly  all  her  time  and 
strength  were  given  to  our  small  apartment,  in  the  same 
building  as  that  of  her  father.  By  countless  feminine 
touches  she  was  making  it  look  like  the  home  she  had 
planned.  She  was  getting  all  in  order.  And  then  one 
night  she  told  me  why.  Her  arms  were  close  around  me 
and  her  voice  was  so  low  I  could  barely  hear : 

"There's  going  to  be  another  soon — another  one  of  us 
— do  you  hear  ? — a  very  tiny  blessed  one." 

I  held  her  slowly  tighter. 

"Oh,  my  darling  girl,"  I  whispered. 

Suddenly  I  relaxed  my  hold,  for  I  was  afraid  of  hurt 
ing  her  now.  In  a  moment  all  was  so  utterly  changed. 
And  as  in  that  brave,  quiet  way  of  hers  she  looked  smiling 
steadily  into  my  eyes,  my  throat  contracted  sharply.  For 
into  my  mind  leaped  the  memory  of  what  the  harbor  had 
shown  to  me  on  that  sultry  hideous  summer  night  in  the 
tenement  over  in  Brooklyn.  And  that  must  happen  to 
my  wife! 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  whispered,  "if  you  only  knew  how 
much  strength  I  stored  up  way  over  there  in  the  moun 
tains." 

So  she  had  been  thinking  of  this  even  then,  and  yet 
had  told  me  nothing! 

Here  was  the  beginning   of   a   long   anxious  period. 


208  THE    HARBOR 

Month  after  month  I  watched  her  quietly  preparing. 
Slowly  we  drew  into  ourselves,  while  her  father  and 
mine  and  Sue  and  our  friends  came  and  went,  but  mat 
tered  little.  I  wondered  if  Dillon  ever  felt  this.  As 
he  came  down  to  us  in  the  evenings  from  the  apartment 
upstairs,  where  he  and  Eleanore  had  meant  so  much  to 
each  other  only  a  year  before,  he  gave  no  sign  that  he 
saw  any  change.  But  one  night  after  he  had  gone,  Elea 
nore  happened  to  pick  up  the  evening  paper  which  had 
dropped  from  his  bulging  overcoat  pocket. 

"Billy,  come  here,"  she  said  presently. 

"What"  is  it?" 

"Look  at  this." 

The  President  of  the  United  States  had  gone  with  Elea- 
nore's  father  that  day  in  a  revenue  cutter  over  the  harbor 
and  had  spoken  of  Dillon's  great  dream  in  vigorous  terms 
of  approval. 

"And  father  was  here  this  evening,"  said  Eleanore 
very  slowly,  "and  yet  he  never  told  me  a  word.  He  saw 
that  I'd  heard  nothing  and  he  thought  I  didn't  care.  Oh, 
Billy,  I  feel  so  ashamed." 

But  she  soon  forgot  the  incident. 

My  suspense  grew  sharp  as  the  time  crew  near.  I  had 
a  good  doctor,  I  was  sure  of  that,  and  he  told  me  he  had 
an  excellent  nurse.  But  what  good  were  all  these  puny 
precautions  ?  The  tenement  room  in  Brooklyn  kept  rising 
in  my  mind. 

She  sat  by  the  window  that  last  night,  and  looking 
down  on  the  far-away  lights  of  the  river  we  planned 
another  trip  abroad. 

A  few  hours  later  I  stood  over  her,  holding  her  hand, 
and  with  her  white  lips  pressed  close  together  and  her 
eyes  shut,  she  went  through  one  of  those  terrible  spasms. 
Then  she  looked  up  in  the  moment's  relief.  And  suddenly 
here  was  that  -smile  of  hers.  And  she  said  low,  between 
clenched  teeth, 

"Well,  dearie,  another  starting  out " 


CHAPTEE    XIX 

THE  next  morning,  after  the  rush  of  relief  at  the  news 
of  Eleanore's  safety  and  the  strange  sight  of  our  tiny 
son,  I  felt  keyed  gloriously  high,  ready  for  anything  under 
the  sun.  But  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  whatever  to  do, 
I  felt  in  the  way  each  time  that  I  moved,  so  I  took  to 
my  old  refuge,  work.  And  then  into  my  small  work 
room  came  Eleanore's  father  for  a  long  talk.  He  too  had 
been  up  all  night,  his  lean  face  was  heavily  marked  from 
the  strain,  but  their  usual  deep  serenity  had  come  back 
into  his  quiet  eyes. 

"Let's  take  a  day  off,"  he  said,  smiling.  "We're  both 
so  tired  we  don't  know  it." 

"Tired  ?"  I  demanded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you're  tired — more  than  you've  ever 
been  in  your  life.  You'll  feel  like  a  rag  by  to-morrow, 
and  then  I  hope  you'll  take  a  good  rest.  But  to-day, 
while  you  are  still  way  up,  I  want  to  talk  about  your 
work.  Do  you  mind?" 

"Mind?  'No,"  I  replied,  a  bit  anxiously.  "It's  just 
what  I'm  trying  to  figure  out." 

"I  know  you  are.  You've  figured  for  months  and 
you've  worked  yourself  thin.  I  don't  mind  that,  I  like 
it,  because  I  know  the  reason.  But  I  don't  think  the 
result  has  been  good.  It  seems  to  me  you've  been  so 
anxious  to  get  on,  because  of  this  large  family  of  yours, 
that  you've  shut  yourself  up  and  written  too  fast,  you've 
gotten  rather  away  from  life.  Shall  I  go  right  on  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  watching  intently. 

"Well/'  he  continued,  "you've  been  using  what  name 

209 


210  THE    HARBOR 

you've  already  made  and  writing  short  stories  of  harbor 
life." 

"That's  what  the  editors  want,"  I  said.  "When  a  man 
makes  a  hit  in  one  vein  of  writing  they  want  that  and 
nothing  else." 

"At  this  rate  you'll  soon  work  out  the  vein,"  he  said. 
"I'd  like  to  see  you  stop  writing  now,  take  time  to  find 
new  ground — and  dig." 

"There's  not  an  awful  lot  of  time,"  I  remarked. 

"My  plan  won't  stop  your  making  money,"  he  replied. 
"I  want  you  to  write  less,  but  get  more  pay." 

"That  sounds  attractive.    How  shall  I  do  it?" 

"By  writing  about  big  men,"  he  said.  "I  suggest  that 
you  try  a  series  of  portraits  of  some  of  the  big  Ameri 
cans  and  the  America  they  know." 

I  jumped  up  so  suddenly  he  started. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  with  a  glance  at  the 
door.  "Did  you  hear  anything?" 

"Yes,"  I  said  excitedly.  "I  heard  a  stunning  title! 
The  America  They  Know!" 

We  discussed  it  all  that  morning  and  it  appealed  to  me 
more  and  more.  Later  on,  with  Eleanore's  help  (for  she 
grew  stronger •  fast  those  days),  I  prevailed  upon  her 
father  to  let  me  practice  upon  himself  as  my  first  sub 
ject.  I  worked  fast,  my  material  right  at  hand,  and 
within  a  few  weeks  I  had  written  the  story  of  those  sig 
nificant  incidents  out  of  thirty  years  of  work  and  wan 
derings  east  and  west  that  showed  the  America  he  had 
known,  his  widening  view.  I  did  his  portrait,  so  to  speak, 
with  his  back  to  the  reader,  letting  the  reader  see  what 
he  saw.  This  story  I  sold  promptly,  and  under  the  tonic 
of  that  success  I  went  into  the  work  with  zest  and  vim. 

It  filled  the  next  four  years  of  my  life.  It  took  the 
view  I  had  had  of  the  harbor  and  widened  it  to  embrace 
the  whole  land,  which  I  now  saw  altogether  through  the 
eyes  of  the  men  at  the  top. 

The  most  central  figure  of  them  all,  and  by  far  the 


THE    HARBOR  211 

most  difficult  to  attack,  was  a  powerful  ISTew  York  banker, 
one  of  those  invisible  gods  whose  hand  I  had  felt  on  the 
harbor. 

"The  value  of  him  to  you,"  Dillon  said,  "is  that  if 
you  can  only  make  him  talk  you'll  find  him  a  born  story 
teller.  The  secret  scandal  of  his  life  is  that  once  in  a  short 
vacation  he  tried  to  write  a  play." 

It  was  weeks  before  he  would  see  me,  and  I  had  my 
first  interview  at  last  only  by  getting  on  a  night  train 
which  he  had  taken  for  Cleveland.  There  in  his  state 
room,  cornered,  he  received  me  with  a  grim,  reluctance. 
And  with  a  humorous  glint  in  his  eyes, 

"How  much  do  you  know  about  banking?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,"  I  said  frankly.  And  then  I  took  a  sudden 
chance.  "What  do  you  know  about  writing?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"  he  said  placidly. 

"Is  that  true  ?  I  thought  you  once  wrote  a  play."  He 
sat  up  very  quickly.  "If  you  did,"  I  went  on,  "you've 
probably  read  some  of  Shakespeare's  stuff.  It  was  strong 
stuff  about  strong  men.  If  he  were  alive  he'd  write  about 
you,  but  I'm  sure  that  he  wouldn't  know  about  banking. 
That's  only  your  job." 

"What  do  you  want  of  me,  young  man  ?"  he  inquired. 
"Is  it  my  soul  ?" 

"Not   at   all,"   I   answered.      "It's   the   America   you 

know,  expressed  in  such  simple  human  terms  that  even 

a  young  ignoramus  like  me  will  be  able  to  understand 

.it.     Out  of  this  big  country  a  good  many  thousands  of 

men,  I  suppose,  have  come  to  you  for  money.     Which 

>  are  the  most  significant  ones  ?" 

And  I  went  on  to  explain  my  idea.  Soon  it  began  to 
take  hold  of  him.  We  talked  until  after  midnight,  and 
later  we  had  other  talks.  It  was  hard  at  first  in  the 
questioning  to  dodge  the  technical  side  of  it  all,  the  widely 
intricate  workings  of  that  machine  of  credit  of  which 
he  was  chief  engineer.  But  as  he  saw  how  eager  I  was 
to  feel  his  view  and  become  enthused,  by  degrees  he 


212  THE    HARBOR 

humanized  it  all.  And  not  only  that,  he  trusted  me,  he 
gave  me  the  most  intimate  glimpses  into  this  life  of  big 
money,  although  when  I  dared  to  include  such  bits  in  the 
story  that  I  showed  him  he  calmly  scratched  them  out  and 
said: 

"You're  mistaken,  young  man.     I  didn't  say  that."        / 

As  he  talked  I  saw  again  that  vision  I  had  had  on  the 
North  River  docks.  For  into  this  man's  office  had  como 
the  men  of  the  mines,  the  factories  and  the  mills,  the 
promoters  of  vast  irrigations  on  prairies,  builders  of  rail 
roads,  real  estate  plungers,  street  traction  promoters,  de 
partment  store  owners,  newspaper  proprietors,  politicians 
— the  builders  and  boomers,  the  strong  energetic  men  of 
the  land.  He  showed  me  their  power  and  made  me  feel 
it  was  still  but  in  its  infancy.  He  made  me  feel  a  daz 
zling  future  rushing  upon  us,  a  future  of  plenty  still 
more  controlled  by  the  keen  minds  and  wide  visions  of 
the  powerful  men  at  the  top. 

Of  all  these  men  and  the  rushing  world  of  power  they 
lived  in,  I  have  only  a  jumble  of  memories  now.  For 
my  own  life  was  a  jumble — irregular,  crowded  and  in 
tense.  In  their  offices,  clubs  and  homes,  in  their  motors, 
on  yachts  and  trains,  in  Chicago  and  Pittsburgh  and 
other  cities,  I  followed  them,  making  my  time  suit  theirs. 
Some  had  no  use  for  me  at  all,  but  I  found  others  de 
lighted  to  talk — like  the  great  Dakota  ranchman  who 
ordered  twenty  thousand  copies  of  the  issue  in  which  his 
story  appeared  and  scattered  them  like  seeds  of  fame 
over  the  various  counties  of  wheat,  corn  and  alfalfa  he 
owned.  And  in  the  main  I  had  little  trouble.  I  met 
often  that  curious  respect  which  so  many  men  of  affairs 
seem  to  have,  God  knows  why,  for  a  successful  writer. 

I  got  in  where  men  with  ten  times  my  knowledge  were 
barred.  I  remember  with  a  touch  of  shame  the  institute 
of  scientific  research  where  the  chief  of  the  place  took 
a  whole  afternoon  to  show  me  around,  and  while  I  looked 
wise  and  tried  to  feel  thrilled  over  glass  tubes  and  jars 


THE    HARBOR  213 

and  microscopes  through  which  I  peered  at  microbes,  a 
simple  old  country  doctor,  one  of  the  thousands  of  com 
mon  visitors,  by  my  invitation  followed  humbly  in  my 
wake,  murmuring  from  time  to  time, 

"Miraculous,  by  George,  astounding!"  And  gratefully 
pressing  my  hand  at  the  end,  "This  has  been  the  chance 
,of  a  lifetime,"  he  said. 

$'  Perhaps  the  principal  reason  why  I  got  so  warm  a 
welcome  was  the  name  I  had  already  made  as  a  writer 
of  glory  stories.  I  liked  these  men ;  I  liked  to  enthuse  over 
all  the  big  things  they  were  doing.  And  still  true  to  my 
efficiency  god,  the  immense  importance  of  getting  things 
done  loomed  so  high  in  my  view  of  life  as  to  overshadow 
everything  else.  My  sense  of  moral  values  changed. 

It  was  a  strange  unmoral  world. 

In  the  institute  of  science  these  keen  laboratory  gods 
(who  had  seemed  so  cold  and  comfortless  to  me  but  a 
few  short  years  ago)  were  perfecting  a  cure  for  syphilis. 
Strong  men  were  removing  the  wages  of  sin! 

In  Chicago  I  met  the  president  of  a  huge  industrial 
company  who  had  found  it  necessary  at  times  to  use  money 
on  politicians.  For  this  he  had  been  sent  to  jail,  but 
later  his  influence  got  him  out.  Promptly  he  was  made 
treasurer  of  another  company.  In  one  year,  through  his 
energy,  now  more  intense  than  ever,  the  business  of  that 
company  increased  some  thirty-five  per  cent.,  whereupon 
the  directors  of  the  original  corporation,  after  a  stormy 
meeting  in  which  two  church  deacon  directors  fussed  and 
fumed  considerably,  unanimously  decided  to  ask  him  to 
•  come  back.  He  did.  He  told  me  the  story  quite  frankly 
himself.  I  admired  him  tremendously. 

The  head  of  a  mining  company  sat  in  his  office  one 
afternoon  and  talked  of  the  labor  problem.  There  was 
no  right  or  wrong  involved,  he  said,  it  was  simply  a  matter 
of  force.  Once  when  a  strike  threatened  he  had  called 
in  a  "labor  expert"  who  had  used  money  wholesale  and 
there  had  been  no  strike. 


214  THE    HARBOR 

"Well?"  he  asked,  smiling.  "What  do  you  think  of 
it?" 

"I  think  I  can't  print  it."     He  still  smiled. 

"JSFaturally  not.  But  what  do  you  think?  If  you 
yourself  were  responsible  to  several  hundred  stockholders, 
what  would  you  do?  Risk  a  strike  that  might  wipe  out 
their  dividends?  Or  would  you  resort  to  bribery" — his 
smile  slowly  deepened — "which  is  a  penal  offense  in  this 
State?" 

I  found  such  questions  cropping  up  almost  everywhere 
I  went.  In  their  dealings  with  the  public  and  still  more 
with  their  rivals,  there  was  a  ruthless  vigor  that  swept 
old-fashioned  maxims  aside.  And  I  liked  this,  for  it 
got  things  done !  I  was  bored  to  find,  as  I  often  did,  these 
men  in  their  homes  quite  old-fashioned  again  to  suit 
sober  old  wives  who  still  went  to  church.  I  remember 
one  such  elderly  lady  and  the  shock  I  unwittingly  gave 
her.  She  had  deplored  the  decline  of  churches ;  her  own, 
she  said,  was  barely  half  full.  And  I  then  tried  to  cheer 
her  by  an  account  of  my  last  story,  which  was  of  an 
advertising  man,  a  genius  who  in  the  last  two  years  had 
made  churches  his  especial  line  and  by  his  up-to-date 
methods  had  packed  church  after  church  on  a  commission 
basis.  Her  burst  of  disapproval  almost  drove  me  from 
the  house.  And  there  were  so  many  homes  like  that. 
Men  who  were  perfect  giants  by  day  would  become  the 
gentlest  babies  at  night,  allowing  their  wives  to  read  to 
them  such  sentimental  drivel  as  would  have  been  kicked,' 
from  the  office  by  day.  /' 

"But  God  knows  they  need  such  vacuous  homes,"  I  re 
flected,  "to  rest  in." 

I  had  never  dreamed  before  how  strenuous  men's  lives 
could  be.  One  day  in  the  New  York  office  of  a  big 
plunger  in  real  estate  I  pointed  to  a  map  on  the  wall. 

"What  are  all  those  lots  marked  Vacant'  for  ?"  I  asked 
him.  "I  never  saw  many  vacant  lots  in  that  part  of 
town."  He  grinned  cheerfully. 


THE   HARBOR  215 

^Anything  under  four  stories  is  vacant  to  us,"  he  an 
swered,  "because  it  pays  to  buy  it,  tear  it  down  and  build 
something  higher." 

That  was  the  way  they  crowded  their  cities,  and  as 
with  their  cities,  so  with  their  lives.  One  story  that  in 
terested  me  most  was  of  the  weird  America  which  a 
renowned  nerve  specialist  knew.  To  him  came  these 
men  broken  down,  some  on  the  verge  of  insanity.  He 
gave  me  stories  of  their  lives,  of  his  glimpses  into  their 
straining  minds,  he  described  their  pathetic  efforts  to 
rest,  their  strenuous  attempts  to  relax.  He  himself  had 
some  mysterious  ailment,  his  hands  kept  trembling  while 
he  talked.  His  wife  said  he  hadn't  had  a  vacation  of 
over  a  week  in  eleven  years. 

From  such  men  I  would  turn  to  exuberant  lives,  like 
that  of  the  Tammany  leader  now  dead,  who  gave  a  ten- 
thousand-dollar  banquet  one  night,  in  the  Ten  Eyck  in 
Albany,  in  honor  of  the  newsboy  who  every  morning  for 
twenty-two  winters  had  brought  morning  papers  to  him 
in  bed  in  his  hotel  room.  Or  like  that  of  the  millionaire 
merchant  who  told  me  with  the  most  nai've  pride  of  the 
eleven  hundred  electric  lights  in  his  new  home  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  of  how  the  bathrooms  of  both  his  large  daugh 
ters  were  fitted  in  solid  silver  throughout. 

"ISTot  plated,  understand,"  he  said.  "I  told  the  ar 
chitect  while  he  was  at  it  to  put  in  the  real  solid  stuff — ' 
and  plenty  of  it!" 

Through  this  varied  throng  of  successes,  this  rich 
abundance  of  types,  I  ranged  with  an  ever  deepening 
zest.  As  a  hunter  of  game  I  watched  that  endless  human 
procession  on  and  off  the  front  pages  of  papers,  the  men 
who  were  for  the  moment  news.  Often  small  people  too 
would  be  there — like  the  telephone  girl  from  a  suburb, 
who  for  one  day,  as  the  most  important  witness  in  a  sen 
sational  case  of  graft,  was  suddenly  before  the  whole 
country  and  then  as  suddenly  dropped  out  of  sight.  In 
fact,  that  was  now  my  view  of  the  land,  figures  emerging 


5216  THE    HARBOR 

from  dark  obscure  multitudes  up  into  a  bright  circle  of 
light. 

And  I  took  this  front-page  view  of  New  York.  I 
saw  it  as  a  city  where  big  exceptional  people  were  end 
lessly  doing  sensational  things,  both  in  the  making  and 
spending  of  money.  I  saw  it  not  only  as  a  cluster  of 
tall  buildings  far  downtown,  but  uptown  as  well  a  tower 
ing  pile  of  rich  hotels  and  apartments,  a  region  that 
sparkled  gaily  at  night,  lights  flashing  from  tens  of  thou 
sands  of  rooms,  in  arid  out  of  which,  I  felt  delightedly, 
millions  of  people  had  passed  through  the  years.  I  loved 
to  look  up  at  these  windows  at  night,  at  the  sheer  in 
scrutability  of  them.  For  behind  these  twinkling  masses 
I  knew  were  all  things  tragic,  comic — people  laughing, 
fighting,  hating,  scheming,  dreaming,  loving,  living.  I 
thought  of  that  row  of  cabins  de  luxe  that  I  had  seen  on 
the  Christmas  boat.  Here  was  the  same  thing  magnified, 
a  monstrous  caravansary  with  but  one  question  over  its 
doors:  "Have  You  Got  the  Price?" 

Once  I  had  seen  a  harbor.  Then  it  had  grown  into 
a  port.  And  now  I  saw  a  metropolis,  the  hub  of  a  suc 
cessful  land. 

And  through  this  gay  city  of  triumph  I  moved,  myself 
a  success,  and  my  view  of  the  whole  was  colored  by  that. 
My  life  as  an  observer  was  sprinkled  with  personal  mo 
ments  that  made  me  see  everything  in  high  lights.     I 
would  watch  the  life  of  a  street  full  of  people,  and  I 
myself  would  be  on  my  way  to  an  interview  with  some^ 
noted  man  or  coming  away  from  one  who  had  given  me) 
stuff  that  I  knew  would  write  up  big — I  knew  just  how !  • 
Or  at  a  corner  newsstand  I  would  catch  a  glimpse  of 
my   name   on  the   cover   of   some  magazine.      Again   I 
would  be  hurrying  home,  or  into  a  neighboring  florist's 
or  a  theater  ticket  office,  or  diving  into  the  jolly  whirl 
of  the  large  Fifth  Avenue  toy  shop   in   which   I   took 
an  unflagging  delight.     In  my  mind  would  be  thoughts 
of  a  pillow  fight  or  a  long  evening  with  Eleanore,  or 


THE    HARBOR  217 

we  would  be  having  friends  to  dine  or  going  out  to 
dinner. 

For  Eleanore  had  been  swift  to  use  my  success  to 
broaden  both  our  lives.  Young  and  adorably  happy, 
eagerly  alive,  she  did  for  me  what  she  had  done  for  her 
father,  filling  my  life  with  other  lives.  She  was  an  artist 
in  living.  It  was  a  joy  to  see  her  make  out  a  list  of 
people  to  be  asked  to  dine.  Her  father,  once  watching 
the  process,  remarked  to  me  in  low,  solemn  tones: 

"She's  a  regular  social  chemist — who  has  never  had 
an  explosion." 

He  was  often  on  the  list,  and  through  him  and  his 
many  friends  and  the  ones  I  made  through  my  writing, 
by  degrees  our  circle  widened.  We  met  all  kinds  of  peo 
ple,  for  Eleanore  hated  "sets"  and  "cliques."  We  met 
not  only  successful  men  but  (God  help  us  sometimes) 
we  also  met  their  wives.  We  met  successful  writers,  ar 
tists  and  musicians,  and  a  few  people  of  the  stage.  We 
met  visitors  from  the  West  and  from  half  the  big  cities 
of  Europe.  We  furbished  up  our  Erench  and  German, 
our  knowledge  of  books  and  pictures  and  plays — success 
ful  books  and  pictures  and  plays. 

Through  Eleanore's  father  and  his  work  our  minds 
were  still  held  to  the  past,  to  the  harbor  which  had  taken 
me,  bruised  and  blind  and  petty,  and  lifted  me  up  and 
taught  me  to  live,  had  given  me  my  work,  my  home  and 
my  new  god.  I  was  grateful,  I  was  proud,  I  was  in  love 
and  I  felt  strong.  And  my  view  of  the  harbor  in  those 
days  was  of  a  glorious  symbol  of  the  power  of  mind 
over  matter,  and  of  the  mighty  speeding  up  of  a  world  of 
civilization  and  peace,  a  successful  world,  strong,  broad, 
tolerant,  sweeping  on  and  bearing  us  with  it. 

So  we  adventured  gaily,  not  deeper  down,  but  higher 
and  higher  up  into  life. 


BOOK  III 


BOOK  III 

CHAPTER   I 

WE  had  been  married  four  years. 

At  the  end  of  a  crisp  November  day  I  was  just  about 
starting  home.  I  remember  how  keenly  alive  I  felt,  how 
tingling  with  bodily  health,  and  above  all  how  successful. 

I  had  had  such  a  successful  day.  I  had  written  hard 
all  morning  and  my  work  had  been  going  splendidly.  I 
had  lunched  downtown  with  the  man  whose  life  I  was 
writing  that  month,  a  man  of  astounding  fertility,  who 
had  started '  fifteen  years  ago  with  a  small  hotel  in  a 
western  town,  had  made  money,  had  built  a  larger  hotel, 
had  made  money,  had  moved  to  a  larger  town  and  bought 
a  still  larger  hotel,  had  made  money,  had  moved  to- 
Chicago,  New  York,  had  made  money.  And  the  America 
he  knew  was  made  up  of  people  who  themselves  had 
made  their  money  so  suddenly  they  had  to  come  to  hotels 
to  spend  it.  The  stories  that  he  told  me,  both  scandalous 
and  otherwise,  of  these  men  and  women  who  shot  up 
rich  and  diamondy  out  of  this  booming  country  of  ours, 
had  a  range  and  a  richness  of  color  that  had  held  me, 
delighted  through  many  long  talks.  During  luncheon  ho 
had  told  some  of  his  best,  and  had  given  me  permission 
to  print,  with  a  discreet  twist  or  so  to  disguise  them, 
certain  intimate  episodes  in  the  first  fat  years  of  men 
whose  names  were  by-words  now  all  over  the  land.  I 
could  already  see  that  story  selling  on  the  newsstands. 

From  this  man  I  had  come  uptown  to  a  branch  of  tha 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  where  after  an  hour  of  hand-ball  and  a 

221 


222  THE    HARBOR 

plunge  in  the  swimming  tank  I  had  gone  to  a  room  down 
stairs,  to  which  ambitious  youngsters  came  for  free  ad 
vice  from  an  expert  who  told  them  how  to  get  on  in  life. 
His  room  was  a  confessional.  He  would  cross-examine 
each  suppliajnt  hard,  make  a  diagnosis  of  each  one  and 
then  give  him  advice  as  to  what  to  do — whether  or  not 
to  throw  over  his  job,  what  kind  of  work  he  was  suited 
for  best.  The  America  he  knew  was  made  up  of  these 
small  human  units,  some  pitiably  or  absurdly  small,  but 
all  anxiously  straining  upward.  And  they  too  appealed 
to  me. 

For  I  was  so  successful  now  that  I  was  growing  mel 
low.  From  certain  big  men  I  had  written  about  I  had 
taken  a  spacious  breadth  of  view  that  included  a  deep 
indulgence  for  all  these  skurrying  pigmies.  Poor  little 
devils,  give  'em  a  chance,  especially  those  among  them 
who  had  "bim"  enough  to  want  a  chance,  to  wonder  why 
they  were  not  getting  on  and  want  to  do  something  about 
it.  And  so  I  had  formed  the  habit  of  dropping  in  often 
at  this  room,  hearing  its  confessions  and  now  and  then 
helping  get  someone  a  job.  As  the  swimming  tank  made 
my  body  tingle,  so  this  place  affected  my  soul.  It  warmed 
me  to  do  all  I  could  for  some  fellow,  some  decent  kid 
who  wa«  down  on  his  luck.  Besides,  some  confessions 
were  gems  of  their  kind,  glimpses  into  human  lives,  hard 
struggles,  wild  ambitions.  I  meant  to  write  them  up 
some  day.  In  fact,  I  meant  to  write  everything  up,  I  felt 
everything  waiting  for  my  pen. 

And  as  I  went  down  to  the  coat-room,  the  thought  I 
had  had  so  often  lately  came  again  into  my  mind.  I  too 
would  soon  throw  over  my  job,  leave  articles  and  write 
fiction — my  old  Paris  dream.  But  what  a  wide  and  varied 
experience  of  life  I  had  gathered  since  those  ingenuous 
Paris  days.  Yes,  I  would  do  it  real  and  big,  out  of  the 
big  life  I  had  known.  And  my  heroes  would  no  longer 
be  watching  at  my  elbow  to  point  to  the  choicest  bits 
and  say,  "You're  mistaken,  young  man,  I  never  said  that." 


THE    HARBOR  223 

"No,  all  those  lifelike  human  touches  would  stay  in. 
Stories  kept  coming  up  in  my  mind,  one  especially  of 
late.  As  I  stood  in  line  for  my  hat  and  coat  I  thought 
of  it  now  and  grew  so  absorbed  I  forgot  that  I  was 
standing  in  a  line  of  insignificant  clerks — until  the  one 
ahead  of  me,  who  had  just  come  in  from  the  street,  asked 
the  chap  in  front  of  him : 

"Say,  Gus,  did  you  see  the  suffragettes?  Their  parade's 
just  going  by." 

This  brought  me  down  from  the  clouds  with  a  jerk. 
For  I  had  meant  to  see  that  parade.  Sue  was  in  it,  in  it 
hard.  Suffrage  was  her  latest  fad. 

"Naw,"  growled  Gus.  "If  I  was  the  mayor  and  they 
came  to  me  for  a  permit  to  march  I'd  tell  'em  to  go  and 
buy  corsets.  That's  their  complaint.  They  can't  get 
kissed  so  they  want  to  vote."  The  other  one  chuckled: 

"I  saw  one  who  can  have  my  vote — and  all  I'll  ask  is 
a  better  look.  Believe  me,  some  silk  stockings !" 

As  they  went  away  I  glared  after  them.  "Damn  little 
muts,"  I  thought.  I  was  rather  in  favor  of  suffrage,  at 
least  I  felt  indulgent  about  it.  Why  shouldn't  I  be? 
The  great  thing  was  to  keep  your  mind  open  and  kindly, 
to  feel  contempt  for  nothing  whatever.  And  because  I 
felt  contempt  for  no  thing  or  person  in  all  the  world,  I 
now  glared  with  the  most  utter  contempt  on  these  narrow- 
minded  little  clerks. 

Then  I  hurried  out  and  over  to  Fifth  Avenue,  where 
the  throb  of  the  drums  was  still  to  be  heard.  And  there 
I  found  to  my  surprise  that  in  a  very  real  sense  this 
parade  was  different  from  anything  that  I  had  ever  seen 
before.  I  was  more  than  indulgent,  I  was  excited.  And 
by  what?  Not  by  the  marching  lines  of  figures,  flut 
tering  banners,  booming  bands,  nor  just  by  the  fact  that 
these  marchers  were  women,  and  women  quite  frankly 
dressed  for  effect,  so  that  the  whole  rhythmic  mass  had 
a  feminine  color  and  dash  that  made  it  all  gay  and  de 
lightful.  No,  there  was  something  deeper.  And  that 


-224  THE    HARBOR 

something,  I  finally  made  out,  was  this.  These  women 
and  girls  were  all  deeply  thrilled  by  the  feeling  that  for 
the  first  time  in  their  lives  they  were  doing  something 
all  together — for  an  idea  that  each  one  of  them  had 
thought  rather  big  and  stirring  before,  but  now,  as  each 
felt  herself  a  part  of  this  moving,  swinging  multi 
tude,  she  felt  the  idea  suddenly  loom  so  infinitely  larger 
and  more  compelling  than  before  that  she  herself  was 
astounded.  Here  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt 
the  power  of  mass  action. 

And  as  presently  I  started  home  and  the  intensity  of  it 
was  gone,  there  was  an  added  pleasure  to  me  in  remem 
bering  how  I  had  felt  it.  Another  proof  of  my  breadth 
of  mind.  I  hurried  home  to  dinner. 

As  I  entered  our  apartment  I  gave  a  long,  low  mys 
terious  whistle.  And  after  a  moment  another  whistle, 
which  tried  hard  to  be  mysterious,  answered  mine  from 
another  room.  Then  there  were  stealthy  footsteps  which 
ended  in  a  sudden  charge,  and  my  wee  son,  "the  Indian," 
hurled  me  onto  a  sofa,  where,  to  use  his  expression,  we 
"rush-housed"  each  other.  We  did  this  almost  every 
night. 

When  the  big  time  was  about  over  Eleanore  appeared : 

"Come,  Indian,  it's  time  for  bed."  She  led  him  off 
protesting  and  blew  me  back  a  kiss  from  the  door. 

She  had  developed  wonderfully,  this  bewitching  wife 
of  mine,  this  quiet  able  one  in  her  work,  this  smiling 
humorous  one  in  her  life,  this  watchful,  joyous,  intimate 
v  one  in  the  hours  that  shut  everything  out.  Sue  said  I 
'  idolized  my  wife,  that  I  saw  her  all  perfection,  "with 
out  one  redeeming  vice."  Not  at  all.  I  knew  her  vices 
well  enough.  I  knew  she  could  get  distinctly  cross  when 
a  new  gown  came  home  all  wrong.  I  knew  that  she  could 
lie  to  me,  I  had  caught  her  at  it  several  times  when  she 
said  she  was  feeling  finely  and  then  confessed  to  me  the 
next  day,  "I  had  a  splitting  headache  last  night."  In  fact, 
she  had  any  number  of  vices — queer,'  mysterious  feminine 


THE    HARBOR  225 

moods  when  she  quite  shamelessly  shut  me  out.  She 
didn't  half  take  care  of  herself,  she  went  places  when 
she  should  have  stayed  at  home.  And  finally,  she  was 
slow  at  dressing.  Placidly  seated  in  front  of  her  mirror 
she  could  spend  an  entire  hour  in  doing  her  soft  luxuriant 
hair. 

I  went  over  all  these  vices  now  as  I  lay  back  on  the 
sofa.  Idolize  her?  Not  at  all.  I  knew  her.  We  were 
married,  thank  God. 

Then  she  came  back  into  the  room.  She  was  smiling  in 
rather  a  curious  way,  an  expectant  way,  and  I  noticed  that 
her  color  was  unusually  high.  Eleanore  always  dressed 
so  well,  but  to-night  she  had  outdone  herself.  From  her 
trim  blue  satin  slippers  to  the  demure  little  band  of  blue 
at  her  throat  she  was  more  enchantingly  .fresh  than  ever. 
Suffragettes  and  that  sort  of  thing  were  all  very  well  on 
the  Avenue.  Give  me  Eleanore  at  home. 

"Did  you  see  the  parade  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  see  me?" 

I  fairly  jumped! 

"You  ?"  I  demanded.    "Were  you  in  that  march  ?" 

"I  most  certainly  was,"  she  said  quietly.  Having  shot 
her  bolt  she  was  regarding  me  gravely  now,  with  the 
merest  glint  of  amused  delight  somewhere  in  her  gray-blue 
eyes.  "Why  not?"  she  asked.  "I  believe  in  it,  I  want 
the  vote.  Why  shouldn't  I  march?  I  paraded,"  she 
added  serenely,  "in  the  college  section  right  up  near  the 
head  of  the  line.  That's  why  I'm  home  so  early.  I'm 
afraid  I  was  quite  conspicuous,  for  you  see  I'm  rather 
small  and  I  had  to  take  long  swinging  strides  to  keep 
in  step.  But  I  soon  got  used  to  it,  and  I  thoroughly 
enjoyed  the  cheers.  We  waved  back  at  them  with  our 
flags." 

"But,"  I  cried,  "my  darling  wife !  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  about  it  ahead  ?" 

"Because" — she  came  close  up  to  me  and  said  quite 


226  THE    HARBOR 

confidentially,  "we  do  these  things  all  by  ourselves.  You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you  mind  it,  dear?" 

I  lost  about  five  seconds  and  then  I  did  exactly  right. 
I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  laughed  and  called  my  wife  by 
many  names  and  said  she  couldn't  worry  me,  that  I  didn't 
mind  it  in  the  least,  was  proud  of  her  and  so  on.  In 
short,  to  use  a  slang  expression,  I  distinctly  got  away  with 
^  it.  Moreover,  I  soon  felt  what  I  said.  I  was  honestly 
rather  proud  of  my  wife  for  having  had  the  nerve  to 
march.  It  must  have  been  quite  a  struggle,  for  she  was 
no  born  marcher. 

And  I  was  glad  that  I  was  proud.  Another  proof 
of  my  tolerance — which  was  the  more  grateful  to  me  just 
now  because  a  magazine  man  I  admired  had  genially 
hinted  the  other  day  that  I  was  rather  narrow. 

"Did  you  see  Sue?"  I  inquired. 

"Only  for  a  moment,"  she  said.  "Sue  was  one  of  the 
marshals  and  she  was  all  up  and  down  the  lines.  She's 
coming  to  supper  with  many  paraders." 

"A  crowd  of  women  here  ?     I'm  off !" 

"No  you're  not.  She's  bringing  some  men  paraders 
too." 

Men  paraders!  Now  I  could  smile.  I  had  earned 
the  right,  I  had  been  broad.  But  after  all,  there  are 
limits.  I  could  see  those  chaps  parading  with  women.  I 
knew  them,  I  had  seen  them  before,  for  Sue  had  often 
brought  them  here.  I  enjoyed  myself  immensely — till 
Eleanore  shot  another  bolt. 

"Smile  on,  funny  one,"  she  said.  "You'll  be  in  line 
yourself  in  a  year." 

"I  will  not  be  in  line !" 

"I  wonder."  She  looked  at  me  in  a  curious  way.  The 
mirth  went  slowly  out  of  her  eyes.  "There  are  so  many 
queer  new  ideas  crowding  in  all  around  us,"  she  said. 
"And  I  know  you,  Billy,  oh,  so  well — so  much  better 
than  you  know  yourself.  I  know  that  when  you  once 
feel  a  thing  you're  just  the  kind  to  go  into  it  hard.  I'm 


THE   HARBOR  227 

not  speaking  of  suffrage  now — that's  only  one  nice  little 
part.  I  mean  this  whole  big  radical  movement — all  the 
kind  of  thing  your  friend  Joe  Kramer  stood  for."  She 
put  her  arms  about  my  neck.  "Don't  get  too  radical, 
husband  mine — you're  so  nice  and  funny  now,  my  love." 

I  regarded  her  anxiously: 

"Has  this  parade  gone  to  your  head — or  has  Sue  been 
talking  to  you  again  ?" 

"I  lunched  with  Sue " 

"I  knew  it!  And  now  she's  coming  here  to  supper — 
bringing  men  paraders!" 

"And  they'll  all  be  rabidly  hungry/'  said  Eleanore  with 
a  sudden  change.  She  went  quickly  in  to  see  the  cook 
and  left  me  to  grim  meditation. 

I  a  radical?  I  smiled.  And  my  slight  uneasiness 
passed  away,  as  I  thought  about  my  sister. 


CHAPTER   II 

POOR  old  Sue.  What  queer  friends  she  had,  what  a 
muddled  life  compared  to  ours.  What  a  vague  confused 
development,  jumping  from  one  idea  to  another,  never 
seeing  any  job  through,  forever  starting  all  over  again 
with  the  same  feverish  absorption  in  the  next  new  radical 
fad.  High-brow  dramatics,  the  settlement  movement,  the 
post-impressionists,  socialism,  votes  for  women,  one  thing 
after  the  other  pell  mell.  She  would  work  herself  all 
up,  live  hard,  talk,  organize,  think  and  feel  till  her  nerves 
went  all  to  pieces,  and  then  she  would  come  to  us  for  a 
rest  and  laugh  at  us  for  our  restfulness  and  at  herself 
for  the  state  she  was  in.  That  was  one  thing  at  least  she 
had  learned — to  laugh  at  herself — she  could  be  deliciously 
humorous.  And  Eleanore,  meeting  her  on  that  ground, 
would  quiet  her  and  steady  her  down. 

We  had  grown  very  fond  of  Sue.  We  knew  her  life 
was  not  easy  at  home.  Alone  over  there  with  poor  old 
Dad  and  feeling  herself  anchored  down,  she  would  still 
at  intervals  rebel — against  his  sticking  to  his  dull  job, 
against  her  own  dependence,  against  the  small  monthly 
allowance  which  without  my  father's  knowledge  they  still 
had  from  me. 

"Let  me  earn  my  own  living!"  she  would  exclaim. 
"Why  shouldn't  I?  I'm  twenty-six — and  I'm  working 
hard  enough  as  it  is — the  Lord  knows!  I'm  organizing 
every  day  and  making  speeches  half  my  nights.  Other 
girls  take  pay  for  that.  Now  Father,  please  be  sensi 
ble.  I'm  going  to  take  a  good  salaried  job." 

But  then  Dad,  whose  mind  was  so  old  and  rigid,  so 
much  less  tolerant  than  mine,  would  grow  excited  or,  still 

228 


THE    HARBOR  229 

worse,  ashamed  that  lie  couldn't  make  money  enough  to 
give  her  all  she  wanted.  And  that  desperate  hungry  love 
with  which  he  clung  to  her  these  latter  days  would  in 
the  end  make  her  give  in.  For  under  all  her  radical 
talk  Sue  had  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world. 

Eleanore  did  her  best  to  help.  She  was  always  having 
Dad  over  to  dinner,  and  we  had  a  room  which  she  called 
his,  where  he  would  come  and  stay  the  week-end.  At 
six  o'clock  each  Saturday  night  he  would  arrive  with  his 
satchel. 

"Daughter-in-law,"  he  would  announce,  "my  other 
daughter's  agin  the  law,  she's  gone  off  revolooting.  Can 
you  take  a  decent  old  gentleman  in  out  of  the  last  cen 
tury  ?  Don't  change  any  plans  on  my  account.  If  you're 
going  out  to  dinner  just  tell  the  cook  to  give  me  a  snack 
and  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  I'll  light  a  good  cigar  and  read 
the  works  of  my  great  son.  Go  right  ahead  as  if  I  wasn't 
here." 

If  we  had  he  would  have  been  furious.  Eleanore  al 
ways  made  it  his  night — and  no  quiet  evening,  either. 
When  we  didn't  take  him  out  to  a  play  she  invited  people 
to  dinner — young  people,  for  he  liked  them  best.  And 
late  on  Sunday  morning  the  "Indian"  would  wake  him 
up,  would  watch  nim  shave  and  dress  and  breakfast,  and 
then  they  would  be  off  to  the  Park.  We  had  named  our 
small  son  after  Dad  and  they  were  the  most  splendid 
chums.  They  had  any  number  of  secrets. 

Eleanore  too  had  made  Sue  use  our  apartment.  Sue 
called  it  her  Manhattan  club  and  brought  her  friends 
here  now  and  then — "to  stir  you  people  up,"  she  said. 
But  this  did  not  disturb  me,  I  felt  too  secure  in  life. 
And  with  a  safe,  amused  and  slightly  curious  attitude  I 
found  Sue  quite  a  tonic.  I  liked  to  hear  her  knock  my 
big  men  in  her  cocksure  superior  way.  It  was  mighty 
good  fun.  And  every  now  and  then  by  mistake  she  would 
hit  on  something  that  was  true. 

I  found  something  too  in  her  ideas.     This  suffrage 


230  THE    HARBOR 

business,  for  example.  She  had  stuck  to  this  hobby  quite 
a  while,  and  through  it  she  had  reached  the  conviction 
that  women  would  never  get  the  vote  until  the  great  mass 
of  working  girls  were  drawn  into  the  movement.  So  she 
had  gone  in  for  working  girls'  clubs,  and  from  clubs 
into  trade  unions  and  from  trade  unions  into  strikes. 
There  had  been  a  strike  of  laundry  girls  which  for  a  week 
was  the  talk  of  the  town.  Sue  and  some  of  her  suffrage 
friends  had  organized  meetings  every  night,  and  in  a 
borrowed  automobile  she  had  rushed  from  meeting  to 
meeting  with  two  laundry  women,  meager  forlorn-looking 
creatures  who  stood  up  much  embarrassed  and  awkwardly 
told  about  their  lives.  One  of  them,  a  young  widow,  had 
gone  home  from  work  one  night  at  eleven  and  found  that 
her  small  baby  had  died  of  convulsions  during  her  ab 
sence.  It  was  grim,  terrible  stuff  of  its  kind,  and  Sue 
was  so  intensely  wrought  up  you'd  have  thought  there 
was  nothing  else  in  the  world.  But  the  strike  stopped 
as  suddenly  as  it  began,  and  the  two  women  whose  names 
she  had  brought  into  headlines  were  refused  jobs  wherever 
they  went.  Sue  tried  to  help  them  for  a  while,  until 
this  suffrage  parade  came  along,  when  she  went  into  this 
equally  hard  and  quite  forgot  their  existence. 

And  then  Eleanore  took  them  up.  Quietly  and  as 
a  matter  of  course,  she  took  their  troubles  on  her  hands, 
sent  one  to  a  hospital  and  got  the  other  work,  looked  into 
their  wretched  home  affairs  and  had  them  come  often  to 
see  her.  And  this  kind  of  thing  was  happening  often, 
Sue  taking  up  and  dropping  what  Eleanore  then  took 
up  and  put  through.  I  compared  them  with  a  glow  of 
pride. 

Eleanore's  way  was  so  sane  and  sure.  She  looked 
upon  society  much  as  she  did  upon  our  son,  who  had 
frequent  little  ailments  but  through  them  all  what  a  glori 
ous  growth,  to  watch  it  was  a  perpetual  joy.  I  remember 
once,  when  in  his  young  stomach  there  were  some  fear 
ful  goings  on,  Eleanore's  remarking; 


THE   HARBOR  231 

"Now  if  Sue  had  a  child  with  a  stomacH  in  trouble, 
I  suppose  her  way  would  be  to  quickly  remove  the  entire 
stomach  and  put  some  new  radical  thing  in  its  place." 

And  then  she  went  to  the  medicine  chest,  and  a  vastly 
comforted  Indian  was  soon  cheerfully  sitting  up  in  bed. 

Eleanore  could  help  others,  I  felt,  because  she  had 
first  helped  herself,  had  tackled  the  mote  in  her  own  eye, 
from  the  time  when  she  had  gone  down  to  the  harbor  to 
get  her  roots,  as  she  called  it.  She  was  a  wonderful  man 
ager,  our  budget  was  carefully  worked  out.  And  she 
had  herself  so  well  in  hand  she  could  put  herself  behind 
herself  and  smile  clearly  out  on  life. 

"When  Eleanore  takes  up  a  charity  case,"  said  her 
father,  "she  turns  it  into  a  person  at  once,  and  later  into 
an  intimate  friend." 

He  himself  took  a  quiet  interest  in  all  her  charity  cases. 
They  would  often  talk  them  over  at  night,  and  in  his 
easy  careless  way  he  would  turn  over  all  his  spare  money 
to  help  in  the  work.  Eleanore  would  protest  at  times, 
and  tell  him  how  utterly  foolish  he  was  in  not  putting 
money  aside  for  himself.  But  soon,  deep  in  another  case 
of  poignant  human  misery,  she  would  throw  all  caution 
to  the  winds  and  use  her  father's  money — every  dollar 
he  could  spare.  That  was  another  vice  she  had. 

How  she  hated  all  the  red  tape  in  that  huge  network 
of  institutions  by  which  New  York  City  provides  "re 
lief."  She  never  dropped  a  case  of  hers  into  that 
cumbrous  relief  machine  and  then  let  it  slip  out  of  her 
sight.  She  did  the  hard  thing,  she  followed  it  up.  She 
'  had  learned,  as  I  had  in  my  work,  to  "get  on  the  inside" 
of  this  secretive  city,  to  go  to  the  gods  behind  it  all  and 
so  have  her  cases  shoved.  One  day  when  one  of  them,  a 
woman,  was  in  a  hospital  so  desperately  ill  that  her  very 
life  depended  on  being  moved  to  a  private  room — "It 
can't  be  done,"  said  the  superintendent.  Eleanore  took 
the  subway  downtown  to  the  Wall  Street  office  of  the 
man  who  was  the  hospital's  principal  backer.  She  found 


232  THE    HARBOR 

his  outer  office  crowded  with  men  who  were  waiting  to 
see  him  on  business.  "He  can't  see  you/'  she  was  told. 
Then  she  scribbled  this  on  her  card : 

"I  want  none  of  your  money,  a  little  of  your  influence 
and  one  minute  of  your  time  on  behalf  of  a  woman  who 
is  dying." 

About  twenty  minutes  later  that  woman  was  in  a  pri 
vate  room. 

It  is  hard  to  stop  talking  about  my  wife.  But  to 
return  to  my  sister: 

Into  my  reverie  that  night  Sue  burst  with  a  dozen  radi 
cal  friends.  Others  kept  arriving,  and  our  small  rooms 
were  soon  a  riot  of  color  and  chatter.  Banners  were 
stacked  against  the  wall,  bright  yellow  ribbons  were 
everywhere,  faces  were  flushed  and  happily  tired.  Elea- 
nore  sat  at  her  coffee  urn,  cups  and  saucers  and  plates 
went  around,  and  people  still  too  excited  to  rest  stood 
about  eating  hungrily.  The  talking  was  fast  and  furious 
now.  I  listened,  watched  their  faces. 

These  "radicals,"  it  seemed  to  me,  had  talked  straight 
on  both  day  and  night  ever  since  the  evenings  years  ago 
when  one  of  their  earliest  coteries  had  gathered  in  our 
Brooklyn  home.  And  talking  they  had  multiplied  and 
ramified  all  over  the  town.  There  was  nothing  under 
heaven  their  fingers  did  not  itch  to  change.  Here  close 
by  my  side  were  three  of  them,  two  would-be  Ibsen 
actresses  and  one  budding  playwright  who  had  had  two 
Broadway  failures  and  one  Berkeley  Lyceum  success.  But 
were  they  talking  of  plays  ?  Not  at  all.  They  talked  of 
the  Russian  Revolution.  It  had  died  down  in  the  last 
few  years,  and  they  wanted  to  help  stir  it  up  again  by 
throwing  some  more  American  money  into  the  smoldering 
embers.  To  do  this  they  planned  to  whip  into  new  life 
"The  Friends  of  Russian  Freedom." 

That  was  it,  I  told  myself,  these  people  were  all  friends 
of  revolutions.  Vaguely  as  I  watched  them  now  I  felt  I 


THE   HARBOR  233 

was  seeing  the  parlor  side,  the  light  and  fluffy  outer  fringe, 
of  something  rather  dangerous.  I  thought  again  of  that 
parade  and  my  impression  of  mass  force.  ISFo  danger  in 
that,  it  was  dressy  and  safe.  But  some  of  these  youngsters 
did  not  stop  there,  they  went  in  for  stirring  up  people 
in  rags,  mass  force  of  a  very  different  kind.  Here  was 
a  sculptor  socialist  who  openly  bragged  that  he'd  had  a 
hand  in  filling  Union  Square  one  day  with  a  seething 
mass  of  unemployed,  and  then  when  some  poor  crazed 
fanatic  threw  a  bomb,  our  socialist  friend,  as  he  himself 
smilingly  put  it,  never  once  stopped  running  until  ho 
reached  his  studio. 

It  was  this  kind  of  thing  that  got  on  my  nerves.  For 
I  pitied  the  unwieldy  poor,  the  numberless  muddle- 
headed  crowds  down  there  in  the  tenements,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  perfectly  criminal  that  a  lot  of  these  young  high 
brows  should  be  allowed  to  stir  them  up.  Their  own 
thinking  was  so  muddled,  their  views  of  life  so  out  of 
gear. 

I  a  radical?    No  chance! 

While  they  chattered  on  excitedly,  I  thought  of  my 
trip  uptown  on  the  "El"  that  afternoon,  a  trip  that  I  had 
made  hundreds  of  times.  Coming  as  I  usually  was  from 
some  big  man  or  other,  whose  busy  office  and  whose  mind 
was  a  clean,  brilliant  illustration  of  what  efficiency  can 
be,  I  would  sit  in  the  car  and  idly  watch  the  upper  story 
windows  we  passed,  with  yellow  gas  jets  flaring  in  the 
cave-like  rooms  behind  them.  There  I  had  glimpses  of 
men  and  girls  at  long  crowded  tables  making  coats,  pants, 
vests,  paper  flowers,  chewing-gum,  five-cent  cigars.  I  saw 
countless  tenement  kitchens,  dirty  cooking,  unmade  beds. 
These  glimpses  followed  one  on  the  other  in  such  a  dizzy 
ing  torrent  they  merged  into  one  moving  picture  for  me. 
And  that  picture  was  of  crowds,  crowds,  crowds — of  peo 
ple  living  frowzily. 

This  was  poverty.  'And  it  was  like  some  prodigious 
swamp.  What  could  you  do  about  it?  You  could  pull 


234  THE    HARBOR 

out  individuals  here  and  there,  as  Eleanore  did.  I  con 
sidered  that  a  mighty  fine  job— for  a  woman  or  a  clergy- 
,man.  But  to  go  at  it  and  drain  the  swamp  was  a  very 
different  matter.  You  couldn't  do  it  by  easy  preaching 
of  patent  cure-alls,  nor  by  stirring  up  class  hatred  through 
rabid  attacks  upon  big  men.  No,  this  was  a  job  for 
the  big  men  themselves,  men  who  would  go  at  this  human 
swamp  as  Eleanore's  father  had  gone  at  the  harbor — 
quietly  and  slowly,  with  an  engineer's  precision.  He  had 
been  at  it  six  solid  years,  but  he  still  remarked  humbly, 
"We've  only  begun." 

Then  from  thinking  of  big  men  I  thought  of  the  one 
I  had  seen  that  day,  and  of  my  story  about  him.  It 
was  just  in  the  stage  I  liked,  where  I  could  feel  it  all 
coming  together.  Incidents,  bits  of  character  and  neat 
little  turns  of  speech  rose  temptingly  before  my  mind. 

Presently,  through  the  clamor  around  me,  I  heard 
"the  Indian"  crying.  All  this  chatter  had  waked  him 
up.  I  saw  Eleanore  go  in  to  him  and  soon  I  heard  the 
crying  stop,  and  I  knew  she  was  telling  him  a  story,  a 
nice  sleepy  one  to  quiet  him  down. 

What  an  infernal  racket  these  people  were  making 
about  the  world.  I  went  on  thinking  about  my  work. 


CHAPTER   III 

"You  two,"  said  Sue,  when  at  last  her  friends  had 
gone  away,  "have  built  up  a  wall  of  contentment  around 
you  a  person  couldn't  break  through  with  an  axe." 

"Have  a  little,"  I  suggested. 

"Stay  all  night,"  said  Eleanore. 

"oSTo,  thanks,"  said  Sue.  "I  promised  Dad  that  I'd 
be  home." 

And  then  instead  of  going  home  she  sprawled  lazily 
on  the  sofa  with  her  head  upon  one  elbow,  and  settled 
in  for  some  more  talk.  But  her  talk  was  different  to 
night.  She  usually  talked  about  herself,  but  to-night 
she  talked  of  us  instead,  of  our  contemptible  content. 
And  presently  through  her  talk  I  felt  that  she  had 
some  surprise  to  spring.  In  a  few  moments  Eleanore  felt 
it  too,  I  could  tell  that  by  the  vigilant  way  she  kept 
glancing  up  from  her  knitting. 

"I  think,"  I  was  remarking,  "we're  a  pretty  liberal- 
minded  pair." 

"That's  it,"  said  Sue.  "You're  liberals !"  What  utter 
disdain  she  threw  into  the  word.  "And  what's  more 
you're  citizens.  In  all  these  movements,"  she  went  on, 
"you  always  find  two  classes — citizens  and  criminals. 
You  two  aro  both  born  citizens." 

"What's  the   difference?"   I   inquired. 

"Citizens,"  said  Sue  impressively,  "are  ready  to  vote 
for  what  they  believe  in.  Criminals  are  ready  to  get 
arrested  and  go  to  jail." 

Eleanore  looked  up  at  her. 

"Who  gave  you  that?"  she  asked.  Sue  looked  a  little 
taken  back,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

235 


236  THE    HARBOR 

"One  of  the  criminals,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was 
carefully  casual  now  but  her  eyes  were  a  little  excited. 
"He's  a  man  who  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wanted  to 
get  way  down  to  the  bottom,  and  see  how  it  feels  to  be 
down  there.  So  he  took  the  very  worst  job  he  could  find. 
For  two  years  he  was  a  stoker — on  ships  of  all  kinds  all 
over  the  world.  And  now  that  he  knows  just  how  it  feels, 
he  has  an  office  down  on  the  docks  where  he's  getting  the 
stokers  and  dockers  together — getting  them  ready  for  a 
strike — on  your  beloved  harbor." 

"Joe  Kramer,"  said  Eleanore  quietly.  Sue  gave  a  sud 
den,  nervous  start. 

"Eleanore,"  she  severely  rejoined,  "sometimes  you're 
simply  uncanny — the  way  you  quietly  jump  at  a 
thing!" 

Eleanore  had  gone  on  with  her  knitting.  I  rose  and 
lit  a  cigarette.  I  could  feel  Sue's  eyes  upon  me.  So 
this  was  her  infernal  surprise!  J.  K.  banging  into  my 
life  again! 

"How  long  has  Joe  been  here?"  I  asked. 

"About  five  months,"   Sue  answered. 

"He  might  have  looked  me  up,"  I  said. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  look  anyone  up,  I've  only  seen 
him  once  myself.  He  has  simply  buried  himself  down 
there.  Why  don't  you  go  and  see  him,  Billy?"  she 
added,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Eleanore.  "He  won't 
amuse  you  the  way  we  do.  He's  one  of  the  real  criminals 
now." 

Still  Eleanore  did  not  look  up. 

"What's  his  address?"  I  asked  gruffly.  Sue  gave  it 
to  me  and  good-humoredly  yawned  and  said  she  must  be 
getting  home. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  said  Eleanore.  She  had  risen  and 
come  to  the  door.  "What  a  love  of  a  hat  you're  wearing. 
It's  a  new  one,  isn't  it?  I  caught  sight  of  it  in  the 
parade." 

But  the  smile  which  my  tall  sister  threw  back  at  us 


THE   HARBOR  237 

from  the  doorway  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  hats. 
It  said  as  plainly  as  in  words: 

"Now,  you  cozy  liberals,  go  over  and  touch  that  spot 
if  you  dare." 

When  she  had  gone  I  took  up  a  book  and  tried  to 
read.  But  I  soon  gloomily  relapsed.  Would  J.  Iv. 
never  leave  me  alone  ?  What  was  he  doing  with  my  har- 
bor  ?  Why  should  I  look  him  up,  confound  him — he 
hadn't  bothered  his  head  about  me.  But  I  knew  that  I 
would  look  him  up  and  would  find  him  more  disturbing 
than  ever.  How  he  did  keep  moving  on.  ISTo,  not  on,  but 
down,  down — until  now  he  had  bumped  the  bottom! 

"Are  you  going  to  see  him  ?" 

Glancing  sharply  up,  I  saw  Eleanore  carefully  watch 
ing  my  face. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  I  replied.  She  bent  again  to  her 
knitting. 

"He  must  be  a  strange  kind  of  a  person,"  she  said- 


CHAPTER   IV 

I  SLEPT  little  that  night,  and  my  work  the  next  morning 
went  badly.  So,  after  wasting  an  hour  or  two,  I'  decided 
to  stop.  I  would  go  and  see  Joe  and  be  done  with  it. 

What  was  he  doing  with  my  harbor?  The  address 
Sue  had  given  me  was  down  on  the  North  River,  my  old 
hunting  ground.  The  weather  had  turned  cold  over-night, 
and  when  I  came  to  the  waterfront  I  felt  the  big  raw 
breath  of  the  sea.  I  had  hardly  been  near  the  harbor 
in  years.  It  had  become  for  me  a  deep  invisible  corner 
stone  upon  which  my  vigorous  world  was  built.  I  had 
climbed  up  into  the  airy  heights,  I  had  been  writing  of 
millionaires.  And  coming  so  abruptly  now  from  my  story 
of  life  in  rich  hotels,  the  place  I  had  once  glorified  looked 
bleak  and  naked,  elemental.  Down  to  the  roots  of  things 
again. 

I  came  to  a  bare  wooden  building,  climbed  some  stairs 
and  entered  a  large,  low-ceilinged  room  which  was  evi 
dently  a  meeting  hall.  Chairs  were  stacked  along  the 
walls  and  there  was  a  low  platform  at  one  end.  As  I 
lingered  there  a  moment,  by  habit  my  eyes  took  in  the 
details.  The  local  color  was  lurid  enough.  On  the  walls 
were  foreign  pictures,  one  of  the  anarchist  Ferrer  being- 
executed  in  Spain,  and  another  of  an  Italian  mob  shaking 
their  fists  and  yelling  like  demons  at  a  bloated  hideous 
priest.  There  were  posters  in  which  flaming  torches, 
blood-red  flags  and  barricades  and  cannon  belching  clouds 
of  smoke  stood  out  in  heavy  blacks  and  reds.  And  all 
this  foreign  violence  was  made  grimly  real  in  its  pur 
pose  here  by  the  way  these  pictures  centered  around  the 
largest  poster,  which  was  of  an  ocean  liner  with  all  its 

238 


THE   HARBOR  239 

different  kinds  of  workers  gathered  together  in  one  mass 
and  staring  fixedly  up  at  the  ship. 

Through  a  door  in  a  board  partition  I  went  into  a  nar 
row  room  from  which  two  dirty  windows  looked  out  upon 
the  docks  below.  This  room  was  cramped  and  crowded. 
Newspapers  and  pamphlets  lay  heaped  on  the  floor,  and 
in  the  corners  were  four  desks,  at  one  of  which  three 
men,  whom  I  learned  later  to  be  an  Italian,  an  English 
man  and  a  Spaniard,  were  talking  together  intensely. 
They  took  no  notice  of  my  entrance,  for  many  other  visi 
tors,  burly,  sooty  creatures,  were  constantly  straggling 
in  and  out. 

I  saw  Joe  at  a  desk  in  one  corner.  Looking  doubly 
tall  and  lean  and  stooped,  and  with  a  tired  frown  on  his 
face,  he  sat  there  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up  slowly  pound 
ing  out  a  letter  on  the  typewriter  before  him.  On  top 
of  his  desk  were  huge  ledgers,  and  over  them  upon  hooks 
on  the  wall  hung  bunches  of  letters  from  other  ports. 
It  all  gave  me  a  heavy  impression  of  dull  daily  drudgery. 
And  in  this  Joe  was  so  absorbed  that  he  took  no  notice 
of  my  presence,  although  I  now  stood  close  behind  him. 
When  at  last  he  did  look  up  and  I  got  a  full  view  of  his 
face,  with  its  large,  familiar  features,  tight-set  jaw  and 
deep-set  eyes,  I  was  startled  at  its  gauntness. 

"Hello,  Joe " 

"Hello."  A  dullish  red  came  into  his  face  and  then  a 
slight  frown.  He  half  rose  from  his  seat.  "Hello,  Bill," 
he  repeated.  "What's  brought  you  here?" 

He  appeared  a  little  dazed  at  first,  then  anything  but 
glad  to  see  me.  The  thought  of  our  old  college  days 
flashed  for  a  moment  into  my  mind.  How  far  away  they 
seemed  just  now.  Through  our  first  few  awkward  re 
marks  he  lapsed  back  into  such  a  tired,  worn  indifference 
that  I  was  soon  on  the  point  of  leaving.  But  that  bony 
gauntness  in  his  face,  and  all  it  showed  me  he  had  been 
through,  gave  him  some  right  to  his  rudeness,  I  thought. 
So  I  changed  my  mind  and  stuck  to  my  purpose  of  hav- 


240  THE    HARBOR 

ing  it  all  out  with  Joe  and  learning  what  he  was  about. 
Persisting  in  my  friendliness  my  questions  slowly  drew 
him  out. 

Since  I  had  seen  him  five  years  ago  he  had  continued 
his  writing,  but  as  he  had  grown  steadily  more  set  on 
writing  only  what  he  called  "the  truth  about  things,"  the 
newspapers  had  closed  their  doors.  While  I  had  gone 
up  he  had  gone  down,  until  finally  throwing  up  in  dis 
gust  "this  whole  fool  game  of  putting  words  on  paper," 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  throw  in  his  life  with  the 
lives  of  the  men  at  the  bottom.  So  for  two  years  he 
had  shoveled  coal  in  the  stokeholes  of  ships  by  day  and 
by  night,  he  had  mixed  with  stokers  of  every  race,  from 
English,  French  and  Germans  to  Russians  and  Italians, 
Spaniards,  Hindus,  Coolies,  Greeks.  He  had  worked  and 
eaten  and  slept  in  their  holes,  he  had  ranged  the  slums 
of  all  the  seas.  And  of  all  this  he  spoke  in  short,  com 
monplace  phrases,  still  in  that  indifferent  tone,  as  though 
personal  stories  were  a  bore. 

"But  look  here,  Joe,"  I  asked  at  the  end,  "what's  the 
good  of  living  like  this?  What  the  devil  can  you  do?" 

I  still  remember  the  look  he  gave  me,  the  weary  remote 
ness  of  it.  But  all  he  said  was, 

"Organize  strikes." 

"Here?" 

"Everywhere." 

"Of  stokers?" 

"No,  of  all  industries." 

"For  higher  pay,  eh,  and  shorter  hours." 

Another  brief  look. 

"No,  for  revolution,"  he  said. 

Briefly,  in  reply  to  my  questions,  he  explained  how 
he  and  his  friends  had  already  induced  some  twelve  thou 
sand  stokers  and  dockers  to  leave  their  old  trade  unions 
and  enroll  themselves  as  members  of  this  new  interna 
tional  body,  which  was  to  embrace  not  only  one  trade 
but  all  the  labor  connected  with  ships — ships  of  all  na- 


THE    HARBOR  241 

tions.  He  was  here  doing  the  advance  work.  As  soon 
as  the  ground  was  made  ready,  he  said,  some  of  the  bigger 
leaders  would  come.  Then  there  would  he  mass  meet 
ings  here  and  presently  a  general  strike.  And  as  the 
years  went  on  there  would  be  similar  strikes  in  all  trades 
and  in  all  countries,  until  at  some  time  not  many  years 
off  there  would  be  such  labor  rebellions  as  would  paralyze 
the  industrial  world.  And  out  of  this  catastrophe  the 
workers  would  emerge  into  power  to  build  up  a  strange 
new  world  of  their  own. 

This  was  what  Joe  saw  ahead.  He  seemed  to  be  seeing 
it  while  he  spoke,  with  a  hard,  clear  intensity  that  struck 
me  rather  cold.  Here  was  no  mere  parlor  talk,  here  was 
a  man  who  lived  what  he  said. 

"You  comfortable  people,"  he  said,  "are  so  damn  com 
fortable  you're  blind.  You  see  nothing  ahead  but  peace 
on  earth  and  a  nice  smooth  evolution — with  a  lot  of  steady 
little  reforms.  You've  got  so  you  honestly  can't  believe 
there's  any  violence  left  in  the  world.  You're  as  blind 
as  most  folks  were  five  years  before  the  Civil  War.  But 
what's  the  use  talking?"  he  ended.  "You  can't  under 
stand  all  this."  Again  my  irritation  rose. 

"No,  I  can't  say  I  do,"  I  replied.  "To  stir  up  mil 
lions  of  men  of  that  kind  and  then  let  'em  loose  upon 
the  world  strikes  me  as  absolutely  mad!" 

"I  knew  it  would." 

"Look  here,  Joe,  how  are  you  so  sure  about  all  this? 
Hasn't  it  ever  struck  you  that  you're  getting  damnably  ; 
narrow?"     He  smiled. 

"I  don't  care  much  if  I'm  narrow,"  he  said. 

"You  think  it's  good  for  you,  being  like  this  ?" 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  good  for  me." 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  anything  else?" 

"Not  in  your  successful  world." 

"Well,  J.  K.,  .I'm  sorry,"  I  retorted  hotly.  "Because 
I'd  like  to  see  your  world,  I  honestly  would!  I'm  not 
like  you,  I'm  always  ready  to  be  shown!" 


242  THE    HARBOR 

"All  right,  come  and  see  it.  Why  don't  you  write  up 
Jim  Marsh?"  He  smiled  as  he  named  the  notorious 
leader  of  the  whole  organization.  "He'll  be  here  soon, 
and  in  his  line  he  has  been  a  mighty  successful  man. 
All  up  and  down  the  U.  S.  A.  Jim's  name  has  been 
in  headlines  and  Jim  himself  has  been  in  jail.  A  suc 
cessful  revolutionist.  So  why  not  add  him  to  your  list  ? 
Write  up  the  America  he  knows."  There  was  a  chal 
lenge  in  Joe's  voice. 

"All  right,  perhaps  I  will,"  I  said.  At  least  I  had 
him  talking  now.  "Come  out  to  lunch  and  tell  me  some 
more." 

"I  don't  want  any  lunch." 

Something  in  the  way  he  said  that  made  me  look  at  him 
quickly.  He  appeared  to  me  now  not  only  thin  but  tense 
and  rather  feverish.  His  nerves  were  plainly  all  on 
edge.  He  had  smoked  one  cigarette  after  another. 

"I've  got  a  lot  of  work  to-day,"  he  added  restlessly. 
"Not  only  these  damn  letters  to  write — I've  got  to  make 
up  our  paper  besides — it  goes  to  the  printer  to-morrow. 
Here,  take  a  copy  with  you." 

And  he  handed  me  the  last  week's  issue.  It  was  a  crude 
and  flimsy  affair,  with  its  name  in  scarehead  letters, 
"WAR  SURE."  I  glanced  it  over  in  silence  a  moment. 
What  a  drop  for  Joe,  from  what  he  had  been,  to  this 
wretched  violent  little  sheet,  this  muckraker  of  the  ocean 
world. 

"Not  like  the  harbor  you  painted,"  he  said. 

"No,"  I  answered  shortly. 

"Do  you  want  another  look  at  your  harbor  ?" 

I  eyed  him  for  a  moment: 

"All  right— I'll  look " 

"Fine  business."  He  had  risen  now,  and  a  gleam  of 
the  old  likable  Joe  came  for  a  moment  into  his  eyes. 

"Meet  me  to-morrow  at  seven  a.  m.  And  let's  look 
at  some  of  its  failures,"  he  said. 


CHAPTEE  V 

"DiD  you  see  him  ?"  Eleanore  asked  that  night. 

"Yes— I  saw  him " 

I  could  feel  her  waiting,  but  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  talk.  Eleanore  wouldn't  like  J.  K.  She  wouldn't  like 
what  I  had  told  him  I'd  do.  I  was  sorry  now  that  I  had, 
it  was  simply  looking  for  trouble.  I  damned  that  chal 
lenge  in  Joe's  voice.  Why  did  he  always  get  hold  of  me 
so? 

"How  did  he  look?  Is  he  much  changed?"  Eleanore 
asked  me  quietly. 

"Yes.  He  looks  half  sick — and  old.  He's  been  through 
a  good  deal,"  I  answered. 

"Did  he  talk  about  that  ?" 

"Yes" — I  hesitated — "and  of  what  he  wants  to  show 
me,"  I  said.  Eleanore  looked  quickly  up. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  him  soon  again  ?" 

"Yes — to-morrow  morning — to  have  a  look  at  his  stoker 
friends.  I  want  to  have  just  one  good  look  at  the  life  that 
has  made  him  what  he  is.  That's  all — that's  all  it  amounts 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  she  came  over  behind 
my  chair  and  I  felt  the  cool  quiet  of  her  hand  as  she  slowly 
stroked  my  forehead. 

"You  look  tired,  dear,"  she  said. 

Just  before  daylight  the  next  morning  I  rose  and 
dressed,  swallowed  some  coffee  and  set  out.  I  took  a  sur 
face  car  downtown. 

I  had  not  been  out  at  this  hour  in  years.  And  as  in  my 
present  mood,  troubled  and  expectant,  I  watched  the 

243 


244  THE    HARBOR 

streets  in  the  raw  half-light,  they  looked  as  utterly  changed 
to  me  as  though  they  were  streets  of  a  different  world. 
The  department  store  windows  looked  unreal.  Their  soft 
rich  lights  had  been  put  out,  and  in  this  cold  hard  light 
of  dawn  all  their  blandishing  ladies  of  wax  appeared  like 
so  many  buxom  ghosts.  Men  were  washing  the  windows. 
Women  and  girls  were  hurrying  by,  and  as  some  of  them 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  peer  in  at  these  phantoms  of 
fashion,  their  own  faces  looked  equally  waxen  to  me.  A 
long,  luxurious  motor  passed  with  a  man  and  a  woman 
in  evening  clothes  half  asleep  in  each  other's  arms.  An 
old  man  with  a  huge  pack  of  rags  turned  slowly  and  stared 
after  them.  The  day's  work  was  beginning.  Peddlers 
trundled  push-carts  along,  newspaper  vendors  opened  their 
stands,  milk  wagons  and  trucks  from  the  markets  came  by, 
some  on  the  gallop.  Our  car  had  filled  with  people  now. 
Men  and  boys  clung  to  the  steps  behind  and  women  and 
girls  were  packed  inside,  most  of  them  hanging  to  the 
straps.  How  badly  and  foolishly  dressed  were  these  girls. 
There  must  be  thousands  of  them  out.  Two  kept  tittering 
inanely.  All  the  rest  were  silent. 

By  the  time  that  I  reached  the  docksheds  the  day  was 
breaking  over  their  roofs.  It  was  freezing  cold,  and  the 
chill  was  worse  in  the  dock  that  I  entered.  I  buttoned  my 
ulster  tighter.  The  big  place  was  dark  and  empty.  The 
dockers,  I  learned  from  the  watchman,  had  quit  work  at 
three  o'clock,  for  a  few  tons  of  fruit  was  all  the  freight 
that  remained  to  be  loaded.  The  ship  was  to  sail  at  nine 
o'clock. 

The  stokers  had  not  yet  gone  aboard.  I  found  about  a 
hundred  of  them  huddled  along  the  steel  wall  of  the  shed. 
Some  of  them  had  old  leather  grips  or  canvas  bags,  but 
many  had  no  luggage  at  all.  A  few  wore  seedy  overcoats, 
but  the  greater  part  had  none,  they  stood  with  their  hands 
in  their  ragged  pockets,  shivering  and  stamping.  Most  of 
them  were  undersized,  some  tough,  some  rather  sickly. 
A  dull-eyed,  wretched,  sodden  lot.  I  got  the  liquor  on 


THE   HARBOR  245 

their  breaths.  A  fat  old  Irish  stoker  came  drifting  half- 
drunk  up  the  pier  with  a  serene  and  waggish  smile. 

"Hello,"  said  Joe  at  my  elbow. 

He  looked  more  fagged  than  the  day  before.  I  noticed 
that  his  lips  were  blue  and  that  his  teeth  were  chattering. 

"Joe,"  I  said  abruptly,  "you're  not  fit  to  be  here.  Let's 
get  out  of  this,  you  belong  in  bed."  He  glanced  at  me 
impatiently. 

"I'm  fit  enough,"  he  muttered.  "We'll  stay  right  here 
and  see  this  show — unless  you  feel  you  want  to  quit " 

"Did  I  say  I  did  ?    I'm  ready  enough " 

"All  right,  then  wait  a  minute.  They're  about  ready 
to  go  on  board." 

But  as  we  stood  and  watched  them,  I  still  felt  the  chat 
tering  teeth  by  my  side,  and  a  wave  of  pity  and  anger  and 
of  disgust  swept  over  me.  Joe  wouldn't  last  long  at  this 
kind  of  thing! 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  friends  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  you're  throwing  your  life  away !" 

"Do  you  ?    How  do  you  make  it  out  ?" 

"Because  they're  an  utterly  hopeless  crowd!  Look  at 
'em — poor  devils — they  look  like  a  lot  of  Bowery  bums !" 

"Yes — they  look  like  a  lot  of  bums.  And  they  feed  all 
the  fires  at  sea." 

"Are  they  all  like  these  ?"  I  demanded. 

"No  better  dressed,"  he  answered.  "A  million  lousy 
brothers  of  Christ." 

"And  you  think  you  can  build  a  new  world  with  them?" 

"No — I  think  they  can  do  it  themselves." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think  they'll  do  themselves  ?  If 
they  ever  do  win  in  any  strike  and  get  a  raise  in  wages — 
they'll  simply  blow  it  in  on  drink !" 

Joe  looked  at  me  a  moment. 

"They'll  do  so  much  more  than  drink,"  he  said.  "Come 
on,"  he  added.  "They're  going  aboard." 

They  were  forming  in  a  long  line  now  before  the  third- 
class  gang-plank.  As  they  went  up  with  their  packs  on 


246  THE    HARBOR 

their  shoulders,  a  man  at  the  top  gave  each  a  shove  and 
shouted  out  a  number,  which  another  official  checked  off 
in  a  book.  The  latter  I  learned  was  the  chief  engineer. 
He  was  a  lean,  powerful,  ruddy-faced  man  with  a  plentiful 
store  of  profanity  which  he  poured  out  in  a  torrent : 

"Come  on !  For  Christ's  sake !  Do  you  want  to  freeze 
solid,  you human  bunch  of  stiffs  ?" 

We  came  up  the  plank  at  the  end  of  the  line,  and  I 
showed  him  a  letter  which  I  had  procured  admitting  us  to 
the  engine  rooms.  He  turned  us  over  promptly  to  one 
of  his  junior  engineers,  and  we  were  soon  climbing  down 
oily  ladders  through  the  intricate  parts  of  the  engines,  all 
polished,  glistening,  carefully  cleaned.  And  then  climb 
ing  down  more  ladders  until  we  were,  as  I  was  told,  within 
ten  feet  of  the  keel  of  the  ship,  we  came  into  the  stokers' 
quarters. 

And  here  nothing  at  all  was  carefully  cleaned.  The 
place  was  foul,  its  painted  steel  walls  and  floor  and  ceiling 
were  heavily  encrusted  with  dirt.  The  low  chamber  was 
crowded  with  rows  of  bunks,  steel  skeleton  bunks  three 
tiers  high,  the  top  tier  just  under  the  ceiling.  In  each  was 
a  thin,  dirty  mattress  and  blanket.  In  some  of  these  men 
were  already  asleep,  breathing  hard,  snoring  and  wheezing. 
Others  were  crowded  around  their  bags  intent  on  some 
thing  I  could  not  see.  Many  were  smoking,  the  air  was 
blue.  Some  were  almost  naked,  and  the  smells  of  their 
bodies  filled  the  place.  It  was  already  stifling. 

"Had  enough  ?"  asked  our  young  guide,  with  a  grin. 

"No,"  I  said,  with  an  answering  superior  smile.  "Y.V11 
stay  a  while  and  get  it  all." 

And  after  a  little  more  talk  he  left  us. 

"How  do  you  like  our  home  ?"  asked  Joe. 

"I'm  here  now,"  I  said  grimly.  "Go  ahead  and  show 
me.  And  try  to  believe  that  I  want  to  be  shown." 

"All  right,  here  comes  our  breakfast." 

Two  stokers  were  bringing  in  a  huge  boiler.  They  set 
it  down  on  the  dirty  floor.  It  was  full  of  a  greasy,  watery 


THE   HARBOR  247 

soup  with  a  thick,  yellow  scum  on  the  top,  through  which 
chunks  of  pork  and  potato  bobbed  up  here  and  there. 

"This  is  scouse,"  Joe  told  me.  Men  eagerly  dipped  tin 
cups  in  this  and  gulped  it  down.  The  chunks  of  meat 
they  ate  with  their  hands.  They  ate  sitting  on  bunks  or 
standing  between  them.  Some  were  wedged  in  close 
around  a  bunk  in  which  lay  a  sleeper  who  looked  utterly 
dead  to  the  world.  His  face  was  white. 

"He  reminds  me,"  said  Joe,  "of  a  fellow  whose  bunk 
was  once  next  to  mine.  He  was  shipped  at  Buenos  Ayres, 
where  the  crimps  still  handle  the  business.  A  crimp  had 
carried  this  chap  on  board,  dumped  him,  got  his  ten  dol 
lars  and  left.  The  man  was  supposed  to  wake  up  at  sea 
and  shovel  coal.  But  this  one  didn't.  The  second  day 
out  some  one  leaned  over  and  touched  him  and  yelled. 
The  crimp  had  sold  us  a  dead  one." 

As  Joe  said  this  he  stared  down  at  the  sleeper,  a  curious 
tensity  in  his  eyes. 

"Joe,  how  did  you  ever  stand  this  life  ?" 

My  own  voice  almost  startled  me,  it  sounded  so  sud 
denly  tense  and  strained.  Joe  turned  and  looked  at  me 
searchingiy,  with  a  trace  of  that  old  affection  of  his. 

"I  didn't,  Kid,"  he  said  gruffly.  "The  two  years  almost 
got  me.  And  that's  what  happens  to  most  of  'em  here. 
Half  of  'em,"  he  added,  "are  down-and-outers  when  they 
start.  They're  what  the  factories  and  mills  and  all  the 
rest  of  this  lovely  modern  industrial  world  throw  out  as 
no  more  wanted.  So  they  drift  down  here  and  take  a  job 
that  nobody  else  will  take,  it's  so  rotten,  and  here  they 
,  have  one  week  of  hell  and  another  week's  good  drunk  in 
port.  And  when  the  barrooms  and  the  women  and  all  the 
waterfront  sharks  have  stripped  'em  of  their  last  red  cent, 
then  the  crimps  collect  an  advance  allotment  from  their 
future  wages  to  ship  'em  off  to  sea  again." 

"That's  not  true  in  this  port,"  I  retorted,  eagerly  catch 
ing  him  up  on  the  one  point  that  I  knew  was  wrong. 
''They  don't  allow  crimps  in  ]STew  York  any  more." 


248  THE    HARBOR 

"No,"  Joe  answered  grimly.  "The  port  of  New  York 
lias  got  reformed,  it's  become  all  for  efficiency  now.  The 
big  companies  put  up  money  for  a  kind  of  a  seamen's  Y. 
M.  C.  A.  where  they  try  to  keep  men  sober  ashore,  and  so 
get  'em  back  quick  into  holes  like  these,  in  the  name  of 
Christ. 

"But  there's  one  thing  they  forget,"  he  added  bitterly. 
"The  age  of  steam  has  sent  the  old-style  sailors  ashore  and 
shipped  these  fellows  in  their  places.  And  that  makes  all 
the  difference.  These  chaps  didn't  grow  up  on  ships  and 
get  used  to  being  kicked  and  cowed  and  shot  for  mutiny  if 
they  struck.  No,  they're  all  grown  up  on  land,  in  fac 
tories  where  they've  been  in  strikes,  and  they  bring  their 
factory  views  along  into  these  floating  factories.  And  they 
don't  like  these  stinking  holes!  They  don't  like  their  jobs, 
with  no  day  and  no  night,  only  steel  walls  and  electric 
light !  You  hear  a  shout  at  midnight  and  you  jump  down 
into  the  stokehole  and  work  like  hell  till  four  a.  m.,  when 
you  crawl  up  all  soaked  in  sweat  and  fall  asleep  till  the 
next  shout.  And  you  do  this,  not  as  the  sailor  did  for  a 
captain  he  knew  and  called  'the  old  man,'  but  for  a  corpo 
ration  so  big  it  has  rules  and  regulations  for  you  like  what 
they  have  in  the  navy.  You're  nothing  but  a  number. 
Look  here." 

He  took  me  to  a  bulletin  that  had  just  been  put  up  on 
the  wall.  Around  it  men  were  eagerly  crowding. 

"Here's  where  you  find  by  your  number  what  shift 
you're  to  work  in,"  he  said,  "and  what  other  number  you 
have  to  replace  if  he  goes  down.  Heart  failure  is  damn 
common  here,  and  if  your  man  gives  out  it  means  you 
double  up  for  the  rest  of  the  voyage.  So  you  get  his  num 
ber  and  hunt  for  him  and  size  him  up.  You  hope  he'll  last. 
I'll  show  you  why." 

He  crawled  down  a  short  ladder  and  through  low  pas 
sageways  dripping  wet  and  so  came  into  the  stokehole. 

This  was  a  long,  narrow  chamber  with  a  row  of  glowing 
furnace  doors.  Wet  coal  and  coal-dust  lay  on  the  floor, 


THE   HARBOR  249 

At  either  end  a  small  steel  door  opened  into  bunkers  that 
ran  along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  deep  down  near  the  bottom, 
containing  thousands  of  tons  of  soft  coal,  which  the  men 
called  "trimmers"  kept  shoveling  out  to  the  stokers.  As 
the  voyage  went  on,  Joe  told  me,  these  trimmers  had  to  go 
farther  and  farther  back  into  the  long,  black  bunkers,  full 
of  stifling  coal-dust,  in  which  if  the  ship  were  rolling  the 
masses  of  coal  kept  crashing  down.  Hundreds  of  men  had 
been  killed  that  way.  In  the  stokehole  the  fires  were  not 
yet  up,  but  by  the  time  the  ship  was  at  sea  the  furnace 
mouths  would  be  white  hot  and  the  men  at  work  half 
naked.  They  not  only  shoveled  coal  into  the  flames,  they 
had  to  spread  it  out  as  well  and  at  intervals  rake  out  the 
"clinkers"  in  fiery  masses  on  the  floor.  On  these  a  stream 
of  water  played,  filling  the  chamber  with  clouds  of  steam. 
In  older  ships,  like  this  one,  a  "lead  stoker"  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  line  and  set  the  pace  for  the  others  to  follow. 
He  was  paid  more  to  keep  up  the  pace.  But  on  the  fast 
new  liners  this  pacer  was  replaced  by  a  gong. 

"And  at  each  stroke  of  the  gong  you  shovel,"  said  Joe. 
"You  do  this  till  you  forget  your  name.  Every  time  the 
boat  pitches,  the  floor  heaves  you  forward,  the  fire  spurts 
at  you  out  of  the  doors  and  the  gong  keeps  on  like  a  sledge 
hammer  coming  down  on  top  of  your  mind.  And  all  you 
think  of  is  your  bunk  and  the  time  when  you're  to  tumble 
in." 

From  the  stokers'  quarters  presently  there  came  a  burst 
of  singing. 

"Now  let's  go  back,"  he  ended,  "and  see  how  they're 
getting  ready  for  this." 

As  we  crawled  back  the  noise  increased,  and  it  swelled 
to  a  roar  as  we  entered.  The  place  was  pandemonium 
now.  Those  groups  I  had  noticed  around  the  bags  had 
been  getting  out  the  liquor,  and  now  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning  half  the  crew  were  already  well  soused.  Some 
moved  restlessly  about.  One  huge  bull  of  a  creature  with 
large,  limpid,  shining  eyes  stopped  suddenly  with  a  puz- 


250  THE    HARBOR 

zled  stare,  then  leaned  back  on  a  bunk  and  laughed  up 
roariously.  From  there  he  lurched  over  the  shoulder  of  a 
thin,  wiry,  sober  man  who,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  bunk, 
was  slowly  spelling  out  the  words  of  a  newspaper  aero 
plane  story.  The  big  man  laughed  again  and  spit,  and 
the  thin  man  jumped  half  up  and  snarled. 

Louder  rose  the  singing.  Half  the  crew  was  crowded 
close  around  a  little  red-faced  cockney.  He  was  the  mod 
ern  "chanty  man."  With  sweat  pouring  down  his  cheeks 
and  the  muscles  of  his  neck  drawn  taut,  he  was  jerking  out 
verse  after  verse  about  women.  He  sang  to  an  old  "chanty" 
tune,  one  that  I  remembered  well.  But  he  was  not  singing 
out  under  the  stars,  he  was  screaming  at  steel  walls  down 
here  in  the  bottom  of  the  ship.  And  although  he  kept 
speeding  up  his  song  the  crowd  were  too  drunk  to  wait  for 
the  chorus,  their  voices  kept  tumbling  in  over  his,  and 
soon  it  was  only  a  frenzy  of  sound,  a  roar  with  yells  rising 
out  of  it.  The  singers  kept  pounding  each  other's  backs 
or  waving  bottles  over  their  heads.  Two  bottles  smashed 
together  and  brought  a  still  higher  burst  of  glee. 

"I'm  tired !"  Joe  shouted.    "Let's  get  out !" 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  strained,  frowning  face.  Again 
it  came  over  me  in  a  flash,  the  years  he  had  spent  in  holes 
like  this,  in  this  hideous,  rotten  world  of  his,  while  I  had 
lived  joyously  in  mine.  And  as  though  he  had  read  the 
thought  in  my  disturbed  and  troubled  eyes, 

"Let's  go  up  where  you  belong,"  he  said. 

I  followed  him  up  and  away  from  his  friends.  As  we 
climbed  ladder  after  ladder,  fainter  and  fainter  on  our 
ears  rose  that  yelling  from  below.  Suddenly  we  came  out 
on  deck  and  slammed  an  iron  door  behind  us. 

And  I  was  where  I  belonged.  I  was  in  dazzling  sun 
shine  and  keen  frosty  Autumn  air.  I  was  among  gay 
throngs  of  people.  Dainty  women  brushed  me  by.  I  felt 
the  softness  of  their  furs,  I  breathed  the  fragrant  scent  of 
them  and  of  the  flowers  that  they  wore,  I  saw  their  fresh 
immaculate  clothes,  I  heard  the  joyous  tumult  of  their 


THE   HARBOR  251 

talking  and  their  laughing  to  the  regular  crash  of  the 
band — all  the  life  of  the  ship  I  had  known  so  well. 

And  I  walked  through  it  all  as  though  in  a  dream.  On 
the  dock  I  watched  it  spellbound — until  with  handker 
chiefs  waving  and  voices  calling  down  good-bys,  that 
throng  of  happy  travelers  moved  slowly  out  into  mid 
stream. 

And  I  knew  that  deep  below  all  this,  down  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  ship,  the  stokers  were  still  singing. 


CHAPTEE   VI 

THAT  same  day  I  had  an  appointment  to  lunch  witK 
the  owner  of  rich  hotels  whose  story  I  was  writing.  And 
the  interview  dragged.  For  the  America  he  knew  was  like 
what  I'd  seen  on  the  upper  decks  of  the  ship  that  had 
sailed  a  few  hours  before.  And  I  could  not  get  back  my 
old  zest  for  it  all,  I  kept  thinking  of  what  I  had  seen 
underneath.  The  faces  of  individual  stokers,  some  fiery 
red,  some  sodden  gray,  kept  bobbing  up  in  my  memory. 
Angrily  trying  to  keep  them  down,  I  went  on  with  my 
questions.  But  I  caught  the  hotel  millionaire  throwing 
curious  looks  at  me  now  and  then. 

I  went  home  worried  and  depressed  and  shut  myself  up 
in  my  workroom.  This  business  had  to  be  thought  out. 
It  wasn't  only  stokers ;  it  was  something  deep,  world-wide. 
I  had  come  up  against  the  slums.  What  had  I  to  do  with 
it  all? 

I  was  in  my  room  all  afternoon.  I  heard  "the  Indian" 
at  my  door,  but  I  sat  still  and  silent,  and  presently  he 
went  away. 

Late  in  the  twilight  Eleanore  came.  How  beautiful  she 
was  to-night.  She  was  wearing  a  soft  gown  of  silk,  blue 
with  something  white  at  her  throat  and  a  brooch  that  I 
had  given  her.  As  she  bent  over  my  shoulder  I  felt  her 
clean,  fresh  loveliness. 

"Don't  you  want  to  tell  me,  love,  just  what  it  was  he 
showed  you  ?" 

"I'd  rather  not,  my  dear  one,  it  was  something  so  ter 
ribly  ugly,"  I  said. 

"I  don't  like  being  so  far  away  from  you,  dear.  Please 
tell  me.  Suppose  you  begin  at  the  start." 

252 


THE   HARBOR  253 

It  took  a  long  time,  for  she  would  let  me  keep  nothing 
back. 

"I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  could  hit  me  so  hard,"  I  said 
at  the  end. 

"I'm  not  surprised/'  said  Eleanore. 

"I  can't  be  simply  angry  at  Joe,"  I  went  on.  "He's  so 
intensely  and  gauntly  sincere.  It  isn't  just  talk  with  him, 
you  see,  as  it  is  with  Sue's  parlor  radical  friends.  Think 
of  the  life  he's  been  leading,  think  of  it  compared  to  mine. 
Joe  and  I  were  mighty  close  once" — I  broke  off  and  got 
up  restlessly.  "I  hate  to  think  of  him,"  I  said. 

"It's  funny,"  said  Eleanore  quietly.  "I  knew  this  was 
coming  sooner  or  later.  Ever  since  we've  been  married 
I've  known  that  Joe  Kramer  still  means  more  to  you  than 
any  man  you've  ever  met." 

"He  doesn't,"  I  said  sharply.  "Where  on  earth  did  you 
get  that  idea  ?" 

"From  you,  my  love,"  she  answered.  "You  can't  dream 
how  often  you've  spoken  about  him." 

"I  didn't  know  I  had !"  It  is  most  disquieting  at  times, 
the  things  Eleanore  tells  me  about  myself. 

"I  know  you  don't,"  she  continued,  "you  do  it  so  un 
consciously.  That's  why  I'm  so  sure  he  has  a  real  place 
in  the  deep  unconscious  part  of  you.  He  worries  you. 
He  gets  you  to  think  you've  no  right  to  be  happy !"  There 
was  a  bitterness  in  her  voice  that  I  had  never  heard  before. 
"I  believe  in  helping  people — of  course — whenever  I  get 
a  chance,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  believe  in  this — I  hate 
it !  It's  simply  an  insane  attempt  to  pull  every  good  thing 
down !  It's  too  awful  even  to  think  of !" 

"We're  not  going  to,"  I  told  her.  "I'm  sorry  for  Joe 
and  I  wish  I  could  help  him  out  of  his  hole.  But  I  can't 
— it's  too  infernally  deep.  He  won't  listen  to  any  talk 
from  me — and  as  long  as  he  won't  I'll  leave  him  alone. 
It's  hideous  enough — God  knows.  But  if  I  ever  tackle 
poverty  and  labor  and  that  sort  of  thing  it'll  be  along  quite 
different  lines." 


254  THE    HARBOR  1 

The  door-bell  rang. 

"Oh  Billy,"  she  said,  "I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Father's 
coming  to  dinner  to-night."  I  looked  at  her  a  moment : 

"Did  you  ask  him  here  on  my  account?"  Eleanore 
smiled  frankly. 

"Yes — I  thought  I  might  need  him,"  she  said. 

I  did  not  talk  to  her  father  of  Joe — his  plans  for  a' 
strike  were  his  secret,  not  mine.  But  with  Eleanore  push 
ing  me  on,  I  described  the  hell  I  had  seen  in  the  stokehole. 

"You're  right,  it's  hell,"  her  father  agreed.  "But  in 
time  we'll  do  away  with  it." 

"I  knew  it,"  Eleanore  put  in. 

"How?"  I  asked. 

"By  using  oil  instead  of  coal.  Or  if  we  can't  get  oil 
cheap  enough  by  automatic  stokers — machines  to  do  the 
work  of  men." 

I  thought  hard  and  fast  for  a  moment,  and  suddenly  I 
realized  that  I  had  never  given  any  real  thought  to  mat 
ters  of  this  kind  before. 

"Then  what  will  become  of  the  stokers  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"One  thing  at  a  time."  I  caught  Dillon  keenly  watch 
ing  me  over  his  cigar.  "Don't  give  up  your  faith  in  effi 
ciency,  Bill.  If  they'll  only  give  us  time  enough  we'll  be 
able  to  do  so  much  for  men." 

There  was  something  so  big  and  sincere  in  his  voice  and 
in  his  clear  and  kindly  eyes. 

"I'm  sure  you  will,"  I  answered.  "If  you  don't,  there's 
nobody  else  who  can." 

In  a  week  or  two,  by  grinding  steadily  on  at  my  work 
and  by  a  few  more  quiet  talks  with  Eleanore  and  her 
father,  I  could  feel  myself  safely  back  on  my  ground. 

But  one  morning  Sue  broke  in  on  me. 

"I've  just  heard  from  a  friend  of  Joe  Kramer's,"  she 
said,  "that  he  is  dangerously  ill.  And  there's  no  one  to 
look  after  him.  Hadn't  you  better  go  yourself  ?" 

"Of  course,"  I  assented  gruffly.    "I'll  go  down  at  once," 


THE   HARBOR  255 

It  seemed  as  though  the  Fates  and  Sue  were  in  league 
to  keep  Joe  in  my  life. 

I  went  to  Joe's  office  and  found  the  address  of  the  room 
where  he  slept.  It  was  over  a  German  saloon  close  by.  It 
i»was  a  large,  low-ceilinged  room,  bare  and  cheaply  fur 
nished,  with  dirty  curtains  at  the  windows,  dirty  collars 
and  shirts  on  the  floor.  It  was  cold.  In  the  high  old- 
fashioned  fireplace  the  coal  fire  had  gone  out.  Joe  was 
lying  dressed  on  the  bed.  He  jumped  up  as  I  entered  and 
came  to  me  with  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  dilated.  He 
gripped  my  hand. 

"Why,  hello,  Kid,"  he  cried.  "Glad  to  see  you!"  And 
then  with  a  quick  drop  of  his  voice :  "Hold  on,  we  mustn't 
talk  so  loud,  we've  got  to  be  quiet  here,  you  know."  He 
turned  away  from  me  restlessly.  "I've  been  hunting  for 
hours  for  that  damn  book.  Their  cataloguing  system  here 
is  rotten,  Kid,  it's  rotten!"  As  he  spoke  he  was  slowly 
feeling  his  way  along  the  dirty  white  wall  of  his  room. 
"They've  cheated  us,  Bill,  I'm  on  to  'em  now!  That's 
what  college  is  really  for  these  days,  to  hide  the  books  we 
ought  to  read!" 

It  came  over  me  suddenly  that  Joe  was  back  in  college, 
on  one  of  those  library  evenings  of  ours.  I  felt  a  tighten 
ing  at  my  throat. 

"Say,  Joe."  I  drew  him  toward  the  bed.  "The  chapel 
bell  has  just  struck  ten.  Time  for  beer  and  pretzels." 

"Fine  business !    Gee,  but  I've  got  a  thirst !  But  where's 
the  door?     God  damn  it  all — I  can't  find  anything  to- 
' night!"    He  laughed  unsteadily. 

"Right  over  here,"  I  answered.    "Steady,  old  man " 

And  so  I  got  him  to  his  bed.  He  fell  down  on  it  breath 
ing  hard  and  I  brought  him  a  drink  of  water.  He  began 
to  shiver  violently.  I  covered  him  up  with  dirty  blankets, 
went  down  to  the  barroom  and  telephoned  to  Eleanore. 
Too  deeply  disturbed  to  think  very  clearly,  acting  on  an 
impulse,  I  told  her  of  Joe's  condition  and  asked  if  I  might 
bring  him  home. 


236  THE   HARBOR 

<(Whj  of  course,"  came  the  answer,  a  little  sharp.  "Wait 
a  moment.  Let  me  think."  There  was  a  pause,  and  then 
she  added  quietly,  "Go  back  to  his  room  and  keep  him  in 
bed.  I'll  see  that  an  ambulance  comes  right  down." 

Within  an  hour  after  that  Joe  was  installed  in  our 
guest  room  with  a  trained  nurse  to  attend  to  him.  The 
doctor  pronounced  it  typhoid  and  he  was  with  us  for  nine 
weeks. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

The  effect  upon  our  lives  was  sharp.  In  our  small 
crowded  apartment  all  entertaining  was  suddenly  stopped, 
and  with  the  sole  exception  of  Sue  no  one  came  to  see  us. 
Even  our  little  Indian  learned  to  be  quiet  as  a  mouse. 
Our  whole  home  became  intense. 

Through  the  thin  wall  of  my  workroom  I  could  hear 
Joe  in  his  delirium.  Now  he  was  busily  writing  letters, 
now  in  a  harsh  excited  voice  he  was  talking  to  a  crowd  of 
men,  again  he  was  furiously  shoveling  coal.  All  this  was 
incoherent,  only  mutterings  most  of  the  time.  But  when 
the  voice  rose  suddenly  it  was  so  full  of  a  stern  pain,  so 
quivering  with  revolt  against  life,  and  it  poured  out  such 
a  torrent  of  commonplace  minute  details  that  showed  this 
was  Joe's  daily  life  and  the  deepest  part  of  his  being — 
that  as  I  listened  at  my  desk  the  ghost  I  thought  I  had 
buried  deep,  that  vague  guilty  feeling  over  my  own  hap 
piness,  came  stealing  up  in  me  again.  And  it  was  so 
poignant  now,  that  struggle  angrily  as  I  would  to  plunge 
again  into  my  work,  I  found  it  impossible  to  describe  the 
life  in  those  rich  gay  hotels  with  the  zest  and  the  dash  I 
needed  to  make  my  story  a  success. 

But  it  had  to  be  a  success,  for  we  needed  money  badly, 
the  expenses  of  Joe's  sickness  were  already  rolling  in. 
So  I  did  finish  it  at  last  and  took  it  to  my  successful  man, 
who  read  it  with  evident  disappointment.  It  was  not  the 
glory  story  that  I  had  led  him  to  expect.  My  magazine 
editor  said  he  would  use  it,  but  he,  too,  appeared  sur 
prised. 


THE   HARBOR  257 

"You  weren't  up  to  your  usual  form,"  was  his  comment. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"A  sick  friend." 

I  started  another  story  at  once,  one  I  had  already 
planned,  about  a  man  who  was  to  build  a  string  of  gor 
geous  opera  houses  in  the  leading  American  cities.  This 
story,  too,  went  slowly.  Joe  Kramer's  voice  kept  breaking 
in.  From  time  to  time  as  I  struggled  on  I  could  feel 
Eleanore  watching  ma 

"Don't  try  to  hurry  it,"  she  said.  "We  can  always  bor 
row  from  father,  you  know — and  besides,  I'm  going  to  cut 
our  expenses." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She  dismissed  the  nurse, 
and  through  the  last  weeks  of  delirium  and  the  first  of  re 
turning  consciousness  she  placed  herself  in  Joe's  border 
land  as  the  one  whose  presence  he  vaguely  felt  pulling  him 
back  into  comfort  and  strength. 

"ISTo,  don't  talk,"  I  heard  her  say  to  him  one  evening. 
"I  don't  want  to  hear  you.  All  I  want  is  to  get  you  well. 
That's  the  only  thing  you  and  I  have  to  talk  of." 

But  having  so  thrown  him  off  his  guard,  as  his  mind 
grew  clearer  she  began  cautiously  drawing  him  out,  de 
spite  his  awakening  hostility  to  this  woman  who  had  made 
me  a  success.  From  my  room  I  heard  snatches  of  their 
talk.  She  surprised  J.  K.  by  the  intimate  bits  of  knowl 
edge  about  him  that  she  had  collected  both  from  me  and 
from  his  own  sick  ramblings.  She  had  just  enough  of  his 
point  of  view  to  rouse  him  from  his  indifference,  to  annoy 
!him  by  her  mistakes  and  her  refusals  to  understand.  I 
'remember  one  afternoon  when  I  went  in  to  sit  with  him, 
his  staring  grimly  up  at  my  face  and  saying: 

"Bill,  that  wife  of  yours  is  such  a  born  success  she 
scares  me.  Everything  she  touches,  everything  she  brings 
me  to  drink,  everything  she  does  to  this  bed,  is  one  thun 
dering  success.  And  she  won't  listen  to  anything  ~but 
success.  Your  case  is  absolutely  hopeless." 

They  became  grim  enemies,  and  both  of  them  enjoyed 


258  THE    HARBOR 

it.  She  let  our  small  son  come  and  sit  by  the  bed.  The 
Indian  promptly  worshiped  Joe  as  the  "longest"  man  he 
had  ever  seen,  and  they  became  boon  companions. 

"It's  pathetic,"  Eleanore  told  me,  "the  little  things  that 
appeal  to  him  here.  Poor  boy,  he  has  forgotten  what  a 
decent  home  is  like." 

As  he  grew  stronger  she  read  the  paper  to  him  each 
morning,  and  they  quarreled  with  keen  relish  over  the 
news  events  of  the  day.  And  as  at  the  start,  so  now,  she 
kept  giving  him  little  shocks  of  surprise  by  her  intimate 
glimpses  into  his  views.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  after 
she  had  come  out  from  his  room  and  was  sitting  by  me 
reading, 

"You're  a  wonder,  Eleanore,"  I  said.  "I  don't  see  how 
you've  done  it." 

"Done  what,  my  love  ?"  asked  Eleanore. 

"Wormed  all  his  views  out  of  poor  old  Joe." 

"I  haven't  done  anything  of  the  sort.  I've  learned  over 
half  of  it  from  Sue.  She  comes  here  often  nowadays  and 
we  have  long  talks  about  him.  Sue  seems  to  know  him 
rather  well." 

This  did  not  interest  me  much,  so  I  switched  our  talk 
to  something  that  did. 

"What  bothers  me,"  I  said  with  a  scowl,  "is  this  in 
fernal  work  of  mine.  What  are  you  smiling  at  ?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"  she  murmured,  beginning  to  read.  "But  if 
I  were  you  I'd  stick  at  my  work.  You're  good  at  that." 

"Not  now  I'm  not,"  I  retorted.  "This  story  about 
the  opera  man  isn't  coming  on  at  all !  The  more  I  work 
the  worse  it  gets !" 

"It  will  get  better  soon,"  she  said. 

*I'm  not  so  sure.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  is  the 
matter  with  me?  I  was  in  to-day  looking  at  Joe  asleep, 
and  watching  the  lines  in  that  face  of  his  it  came  over  me 
all  of  a  sudden  what  a  wretched  coward  I've  been."  Elea 
nore  looked  up  suddenly.  "I  know  there's  something  in  all 
his  talk,  I've  known  it  every  time  we've  met.  His  view's 


THE    HARBOR  259 

so  distorted  it  makes  me  mad,  but  there's  something  in  it 
you  can't  get  away  from.  Poverty,  that's  what  it  is,  and 
I've  always  steered  way  clear  of  it  as  though  I  were  afraid 
to  look.  I've  taken  your  father's  point  of  view  and  left 
the  slums  for  him  and  his  friends  to  tackle  when  they  get 
the  time.  I  was  only  too  glad  to  be  left  out.  But  that 
hour  with  J.  K.  and  his  stokers  gave  me  a  jolt.  I  can 
feel  it  still.  I  can't  seem  to  shake  it  off.  And  I'm  begin 
ning  to  wonder  now  why  I  shouldn't  get  up  the  nerve  to 
see  for  myself,  to  have  a  good  big  look  at  it  all — and  write 
about  it  for  a  while." 

"Don't!"  said  Eleanore.  "Leave  it  alone!"  Her  voice 
was  so  sharp  it  startled  me. 

"Why?"  I  rejoined.  "You've  tackled  poverty  often 
enough.  I  guess  I  can  stand  it  if  you  can." 

"You're  different,"  she  answered.  "You  leave  poverty 
alone  and  force  yourself  to  go  on  with  your  work.  You've 
made  a  very  wonderful  start.  You'll  be  ready  to  take  up 
fiction  soon.  When  you  have,  and  when  you  have  gone 
so  far  that  you  can  feel  sure  of  your  name  and  yourself, 
then  you  can  look  at  whatever  you  like." 

"I  wonder  what  Joe  would  say  to  that." 

"I  know  what  he'll  say — he'll  agree  with  me.  Why 
don't  you  ask  him  and  see  for  yourself  ?  I'm  beginning  to 
like  Joe  Kramer,"  she  added  with  a  quiet  smile,  "because 
now  that  I  understand  him  I  know  that  his  life  and  yours 
are  so  far  apart  you've  hardly  a  point  in  common." 

And  in  the  talks  I  had  with  Joe  this  soon  proved  to  be 
the  case.  Eleanore  brought  us  together  now  and  listened 
with  deep  satisfaction  as  we  clashed  and  jarred  each  other 
apart. 

His  old  indifferent  manner  was  gone,  he  was  softened, 
grateful  for  what  we  had  done — but  he  held  to  that  view  of 
his  like  a  rock,  and  the  view  entirely  shut  me  out.  Joe 
saw  society  wholly  as  "War  Sure"  between  two  classes,  and 
I  was  hopelessly  on  the  wrong  side.  My  work,  my  home 
and  my  whole  life  were  bound  in  with  the  upper  class. 


260  THE    HARBOR 

And  there  could  be  no  middle  ground.  My  boasted  toler 
ance,  breadth  of  mind,  my  readiness  to  see  both  sides,  my 
passion  for  showing  up  all  men  as  human — this  to  Joe  was 
utter  piffle.  He  had  no  use  for  such  writing,  or  in  fact 
for  art  of  any  kind.  "Propaganda"  was  all  that  he  wanted, 
and  that  could  be  as  cheap  as  Nick  Carter,  as  sentimental 
as  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  if  only  it  had  the  kind  of  "punch" 
that  would  reach  to  the  mass  of  ignorant  workers  and  stir 
their  minds  and  their  passions  into  swift  and  bitter  revolt. 
Revolution!  That  was  the  thing.  The  world  had  come 
to  a  time,  he  said,  when  talking  and  writing  weren't  going 
to  count.  We  were  entering  into  an  age  of  force — of 
"direct  action" — strikes  and  the  like — by  prodigious 
masses  of  men.  All  I  could  do  was  worthless. 

These  talks  made  me  so  indignant  and  sore,  so  sure  that 
Joe  and  all  his  work  were  utterly  wild  and  that  only  in 
Dillon  and  his  kind  lay  any  hope  of  solving  the  dreary 
problems  of  the  slums — that  within  a  few  days  more  I 
was  delving  into  my  opera  man  with  a  most  determined  ap 
proval.  He  at  least  was  a  builder,  he  didn't  want  to  tear 
everything  down !  In  his  every  scheme  for  a  huge  success 
I  took  now  an  aggravated  delight.  All  my  recent  toler 
ance  gone,  I  threw  into  my  work  an  intensity  that  I  had 
not  felt  in  months. 

And  Eleanore  smiled  contentedly,  as  though  she  knew 
what  she  was  about.  When  at  last  the  time  came  for  Joe 
to  leave,  she  was  twice  as  friendly  to  him  as  I. 


CHAPTEK   VII 

BUT  on  coining  home  one  evening  two  or  three  weeks 
later,  I  found  Eleanore  reading  aloud  to  our  son  with  a 
most  preoccupied  look  on  her  face. 

"Joe  Kramer  is  coming  to  dinner,"  she  said.  "He 
called  up  this  morning  and  said  he'd  like  to  see  us  again. 
Sue  is  coming,  too,  as  it  happens.  She  dropped  in  this 
afternoon." 

Sue  arrived  a  few  minutes  later,  and  at  once  I  thought 
to  myself  I  had  never  seen  her  look  so  well.  For  once 
she  had  taken  time  to  dress.  She  had  done  her  dark  hair 
in  a  different  way.  Her  color,  which  had  been  poor  of 
late,  to-night  was  most  becomingly  high,  and  those  fascinat 
ing  eyes  of  hers  were  bright  with  a  new  animation. 

"She  has  found  a  fine  new  hobby,"  I  thought. 

Her  whole  attitude  to  us  was  one  of  eager  friendliness. 
She  made  much  of  what  we  had  done  for  Joe. 

"You've  no  idea,"  she  told  me,  "how  he  feels  about  you 
both."  She  was  speaking  of  this  when  Joe  came  in. 

He,  too,  appeared  to  me  different.  Into  his  blunt  man 
ner  had  crept  a  certain  awkwardness,  his  gruff  voice  had 
an  anxious  note  at  times  and  his  eyes  a  hungry  gleam. 
Poor  old  Joe,  I  thought.  It  must  be  hard,  despite  all  his 
talk,  to  see  what  he  had  missed  in  life,  to  feel  what  a 
sacrifice  he  had  made.  He  had  thrown  everything  aside, 
love,  marriage,  home,  all  personal  ties — to  tackle  this 
bleak  business  of  slums.  The  more  pity  he  had  such  a 
twisted  view.  And  as  presently,  in  reply  to  Sue's  ques 
tions,  he  talked  about  the  approaching  strike,  my  irrita 
tion  at  his  talk  grew  even  sharper  than  before. 

"Your  stokers  and  dock  laborers,"  I  interrupted  hotly, 

261 


262  THE    HARBOR 

"are  about  as  fit  to  build  up  a  new  world  as  they  are  to 
build  a  Brooklyn  Bridge!  When  I  compare  them  to 
Eleanore's  father  and  his  way  of  going  to  work" — I  broke 
off  in  exasperation.  "Can't  you  see  you're  all  just  floun- 
.  dering  in  a  perfect  swamp  of  ignorance  ?" 

"No,"  said  Joe.    "I  don't  see  that " 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  don't,"  said  Sue.  Eleanore 
'turned  on  her  abruptly. 

"Why  are  you  glad,  Sue  ?"  she  asked. 

"Because,"  Sue  answered  warmly,  "he's  where  every  one 
of  us  ought  to  be!  He's  doing  the  work  we  all  ought  to 
be  doing!" 

"Then  why  don't  you  do  it  ?"  said  Joe.  His  voice  was 
low  but  sharp  as  in  pain.  The  next  instant  he  turned  from 
Sue  to  me.  "I  mean  all  of  you,"  he  added.  I  looked  at 
him  in  astonishment.  What  had  worked  this  change  in 
Joe  ?  In  our  last  talk  he  had  shut  me  out  so  completely. 
He  seemed  to  feel  this  at  once  himself,  for  he  hastened 
to  explain  his  remark.  He  had  turned  his  back  on  Sue  and 
was  talking  hard  at  me : 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean  you  can  do  it,  Bill,  unless  you 
change  your  whole  view  of  life.  But  why  shouldn't  you 
change  ?  You're  young  enough.  That  look  at  a  stokehole 
got  hold  of  you  hard.  And  if  you're  able  to  feel  like  that 
why  not  do  some  thinking,  too?" 

"Fm  thinking,"  I  said  grimly.  "I  told  you  before  that 
I  wanted  to  help.  But  you  said " 

"I  say  it  still,"  J.  K.  cut  in.  "If  you  want  to  help  the 
'  people  you've  got  to  drop  your  efficiency  gods.  You've  got 
to  believe  in  the  people  first — that  all  they  need  is  waking 
up  to  handle  this  whole  job  themselves.  You've  got  to  see 
that  they're  waking  up  fast — all  over  the  world — that 
they're  getting  tired  of  gods  above  'em  slowly  planning 
out  their  lives — that  they  don't  want  to  wait  till  they're 
dead  to  be  happy — that  they  feel  poverty  every  day  like  a 
million  tons  of  brick  on  their  chests — it's  got  so  they  can't 
even  breathe  without  thinking!  And  you've  got  to  see 


THE    HARBOR  263 

that  what  they're  thinking  is,  'Do  it  yourself  and  do  it 
quick!'  The  only  thing  that's  keeping  them  back  is 
that  in  these  times  of  peace  men  get  out  of  the  habit  of 
violence ! 

"But  the  minute  you  get  this  clear  in  your  mind,  then 
I  say  you  can  help  'em.  Because  what's  needed  is  so  big. 
It's  not  only  more  pay  and  shorter  hours  and  homes  where 
they  needn't  die  off  like  flies — they  need  more  than  that — 
they  need  a  change  as  much  as  you — in  their  whole  way 
of  looking  at  things.  They've  got  to  learn  that  they  are 
a  crowd — and  can't  get  anywhere  at  all  until  all  pull  to 
gether.  Ignorant?  Of  course  they  are!  But  that's 
where  you  and  me  come  in — we  can  help  'em  get  together 
faster  than  they  would  if  left  to  themselves !  You  can  help 
that  way  a  lot — by  writing  to  the  tenements !  That's  what 
I  meant !" 

Joe  stopped  short.  And  after  his  passionate  outburst, 
Eleanore  spoke  up  quietly. 

"This  sounds  funny  from  you,"  she  said.  "A  few  weeks 
ago  you  were  just  as  sure  that  Billy  could  do  nothing. 
What  has  made  you  change  so  ?" 

Joe  reddened  and  looked  down  at  his  hands. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  gruffly  after  a  moment,  "it's  be 
cause  I'm  still  weak  from  typhoid — weak  enough  to  want 
to  see  some  one  but  stokers  get  into  the  job  that's  become 
my  life.  You  see,"  he  muttered,  "I  was  raised  among 
people  like  you.  It's  a  kind  of  a  craving,  I  suppose — 
like  cigarettes."  Again  he  stopped  short  and  there  was  a 
pause. 

"Rather  natural,"  Sue  murmured.  Again  he  turned 
sharply  from  her  to  me. 

"I  say  you  can  help  by  your  writing,"  he  said.  "You 
call  my  friends  an  ignorant  mob.  But  thousands  of  'em 
have  read  your  stuff !" 

I  looked  up  at  Joe  with  a  start. 

"Oh  they  don't  like  it,"  he  went  on.  "It  only  makes 
'em  sore  and  mad.  But  if  you  ever  see  things  right,  and 


264  THE    HARBOR 

get  into  their  side  of  this  fight  with  that  queer  fountain- 
axe  of  yours,  you'll  be  surprised  at  the  tenement  friends 
who'll  pop  up  all  around  you.  The  first  thing  you  know 
they'll  be  calling  you  'Bill.'  That's  the  kind  they  are — 
they  don't  want  to  shut  anyone  out — all  they  want  to 
know  is  whether  he  means  business.  If  he  doesn't  he's  no 
use,  because  they  know  that  sooner  or  later  they'll  do  it 
anyhow  themselves.  It's  going  to  be  the  biggest  fight  that's 
happened  since  the  world  began !  No  cause  has  ever  been 
so  fine,  so  worth  a  man's  giving  his  life  to  aid !  And  all 
you've  got  to  decide  is  this — whether  you're  to  get  in  now, 
and  help  make  it  a  little  easier,  help  make  it  come  without 
violence — or  wait  till  it  all  comes  to  a  crash  and  then  be 
yanked  in  like  a  sack  of  meal !" 

Before  I  could  speak,  Sue  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  don't  see  how  there's  any  choice  about  that,"  she 
said. 

Eleanore  turned  to  her  again : 

"Do  you  mean  for  Billy  ?" 

"I  mean  for  us  all,"  Sue  answered.  "Even  for  a  person 
like  me !"  Sue  was  beautiful  just  then — her  cheeks  aglow, 
her  features  tense,  a  radiant  eagerness  in  her  eyes.  "I've 
felt  it,  oh  so  long,"  she  said.  "It's  gone  all  through  my 
suffrage  work — through  every  speech  that  I  have  made — 
that  the  suffragists  need  the  working  girls  and  ought  to 
help  them  win  their  strikes !" 

"And  what  do  you  think,  Joe?"  Eleanore  persisted. 
"Were  you  speaking  of  Billy  alone  just  now  or  did  you 
/have  Sue,  too,  in  mind  ?" 

Joe  looked  back  at  her  steadily. 

"I  don't  want  to  shut  out  the  women,"  he  said.  "I've 
seen  too  many  girls  jump  in  and  make  a  big  success  of  it. 
ISTot  only  working  girls,  but  plenty  of  college  girls  like 
you."  He  turned  from  Eleanore  to  Sue — and  with  a  gruff 
intensity,  "You  may  think  you  can't  do  it,  Sue,"  he  said. 
"But  I  know  you  can.  I've  seen  it  done,  I  tell  you,  all  the 
way  from  here  to  the  Coast — girls  like  you  as  speakers,  as 


THE    HARBOR  265 

regular  organizers — forgetting  themselves  and  sinking 
themselves — ready  for  any  job  that  comes." 

"That's  the  way  I  should  want  to  do  it,"  said  Sue,  her 
voice  a  little  breathless. 

"But  how  about  wives?"  asked  Eleanore.  "For  some 
of  these  girls  marry,  I  suppose,"  she  added  thoughtfully. 
"At  least  I  hope  they  do.  I  hope  Sue  will." 

"I  never  said  anything  against  that,"  Joe  answered 
shostly. 

"But  if  they  marry  and  have  children,"  Eleanore  con 
tinued,  "aren't  they  apt  to  get  sick  of  it  then,  even  bitter 
about  it,  this  movement  you  speak  of  that  takes  you  in  and 
sinks  you  down,  swallows  up  every  dollar  you  have  and  all 
your  thoughts  and  feelings  ?" 

"It  needn't  do  as  much  as  that,"  Joe  muttered  as  though 
to  himself. 

"Still — I'd  like  to  see  it  work  out,"  Eleanore  persisted. 
"Do  you  happen  to  know  the  wives  of  any  labor  leaders  ?" 

"I  do,"  Joe  answered  quickly.  "The  wife  of  the  big 
gest  man  we've  got.  Jim  Marsh  arrived  in  town  last 
night.  His  wife  is  with  him.  She  always  is." 

"Now  are  you  satisfied,  dear?"  Sue  asked.  But  Elea 
nore  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"Is  Mrs.  Marsh  a  radical,  too — I  mean  an  agitator?" 
she  asked.  Joe's  face  had  clouded  a  little. 

"Not  exactly,"  he  replied.  Eleanore's  eyes  were  at 
tentive  now : 

"Do  you  know  her  well,  Joe  ?" 

"I've  met  her " 

"I'd  like  to  meet  her,  too,"  she  said.  "And  find  out 
how  she  likes  her  life." 

"I  think  I  know  what  you'd  find,"  said  Sue,  in  her  old 
cocksure,  superior  manner.  "I  guess  she  likes  it  well 
enough " 

"Still,  dear,"  Eleanore  murmured,  "instead  of  taking 
things  for  granted  it  would  be  interesting,  I  think,  in  all 
this  talk  to  have  one  look  at  a  little  real  life." 


266  THE    HARBOR 

"Aren't  you  just  a  little  afraid  of  real  life,  Eleanors  ?" 
Sue  demanded,  in  a  quick  challenging  tone. 
"Am  I  ?"  asked  Eleanore  placidly. 

Long  after  Joe  had  left  us,  Sue  kept  up  that  challenging 
tone.  But  she  did  not  speak  to  Eleanore  now,  her  talk 
like  Joe's  was  aimed  at  me. 

"Why  not  think  it  over,  Billy?"  she  urged.  "You're 
not  happy  now,  I  never  saw  you  so  worried  and  blue." 

"I'm  not  in  the  least !"  I  said  stoutly.  But  Sue  did  not 
seem  to  hear  me.  She  went  on  in  an  eager,  absorbed  sort 
of  way : 

"Why  not  try  it  a  little  ?  You  needn't  go  as  far  as  Joe 
Kramer.  He  may  even  learn  to  go  slower  himself — now 
that  he  has  had  typhoid " 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  Eleanore  put  in. 

"Why  not  ?"  cried  Sue  impatiently.  "If  he  keeps  on  at 
this  pace  it  will  kill  him!  Has  he  no  right  to  some  joy  in 
life  ?  Why  should  you  two  have  it  all  ?  Just  think  of  it, 
Billy,  you  have  a  name,  success  and  a  lot  of  power !  Why 
not  use  it  here  ?  Suppose  it  is  harder !  Oh,  I  get  so  out  of 
patience  with  myself  and  all  of  us!  Our  easy,  lazy,  soft 
little  lives !  Why  can't  we  give  ourselves  a  little  ?"  And 
she  went  back  over  all  Joe  had  said.  "It's  all  so  real. 
^o  tremendously  real,"  she  ended. 

"I  wonder  what's  going  to  happen,"  said  Eleanore  when 
we  were  alone. 

"God  knows,"  I  answered  gloomily.  That  hammering 
from  Joe  and  Sue  had  stirred  me  up  all  over  again.  I  had 
doggedly  resisted,  I  had  told  Sue  almost  angrily  that  I 
meant  to  keep  right  on  as  before.  But  now  she  was  gone, 
I  was  not  so  sure.  "I  still  feel  certain  Joe's  all  wrong," 
I  said  aloud.  "But  he  and  his  kind  are  so  dead  in  earnest 
— so  ready  for  any  sacrifice  to  push  their  utterly  wild 
ideas — that  they  may  get  a  lot  of  power.  God  help  the 
country  if  they  do." 


THE    HARBOR  26E 

"I  wasn't  speaking  of  the  country,  my  love,"  my  wife  in 
formed  me  cheerfully.  "I  was  speaking  of  Sue  and  Joe 
Kramer." 

"Joe,"  I  replied,  "will  slam  right  ahead.  You  can  be 
sure  of  that,  I've  got  him  down  cold." 

"Have  you  ?"  she  asked.    "And  how  about  Sue  ?" 

"Oh  Sue,"  I  replied  indifferently,  "has  been  enthused 
so  many  times." 

"Billy." 

I  turned  and  saw  my  wife  regarding  her  husband 
thoughtfully. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "how  long  it  will  be  before  you 
can  write  a  love  story." 

"What?" 

"Sue  and  Joe  Kramer,  you  idiot." 

I  stared  at  her  dumfounded. 

"Did  you  think  all  that  talk  was  aimed  at  you  ?"  my  piti 
less  spouse  continued.  "Did  you  think  all  that  change  in 
Joe's  point  of  view  was  on  your  account  ?" 

I  watched  her  vigilantly  for  a  while. 

"If  there's  anything  in  what  you  say,"  I  remarked  care 
fully  at  last,  "I'll  bet  at  least  that  Joe  doesn't  know  it. 
He  doesn't  even  suspect  it." 

"There  are  so  many  things,"  said  Eleanore,  "that  men 
don't  even  suspect  in  themselves.  I'm  sorry,"  she  added 
regretfully.  "But  that  summer  vacation  we'd  planned 
is  off." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we'll  stay  right  here  in  town.  I  see  anything 
but  a  pleasant  summer." 

"Suppose,"  I  said  excitedly,  "you  tell  me  exactly  what 
you  do  see!" 

"I  see  something,"  Eleanore  answered,  "which  unless  we 
can  stop  it  may  be  a  very  tragic  affair.  Tragic  for  Sue 
because  I  feel  sure  that  she'd  never  stand  Joe's  impossible 
life.  And  even  worse  for  your  father.  He's  not  only  old 
and  excitable,  and  very  weak  and  feeble,  too,  but  he's  so 


268  THE    HARBOR 

conservative  besides  that  if  Sue  married  Joe  Kramer  he'd 
consider  her  utterly  damned." 

"But  I  tell  you  you're  wrong,  all  wrong!"  I  broke  in. 
"Joe  isn't  that  kind  of  an  idiot !" 

"Joe,"  said  my  wife  decidedly,  "is  like  every  man  I've 
ever  met.  I  found  that  out  when  he  was  sick.  He  has  the 
old  natural  longing  for  a  wife  and  a  home  of  his  own. 
His  glimpse  of  it  here  may  have  started  it  rising.  I'm  no 
more  sure  than  you  are  that  he  admits  it  to  himself.  But 
it's  there  all  the  same  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  and  in  that 
same  mysterious  region  he's  trying  to  reconcile  marrying 
Sue  to  the  work  which  he  believes  in — even  with  this  strike 
coming  on.  It's  perfectly  pathetic. 

"Isn't  it  funny,"  she  added,  "how  sometimes  everything 
comes  all  at  once  ?  Do  you  know  what  this  may  mean  to 
us  ?  I  don't,  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  I  only  know  that 
you  yourself  are  horribly  unsettled — and  that  now  through 
this  affair  of  Sue's  we'll  have  to  see  a  good  deal  of  Joe — 
and  not  only  Joe  but  his  friends  on  the  docks — and  not 
even  the  quiet  ones.  No,  we're  to  see  all  the  wild  ones. 
We're  to  be  drawn,  right  into  this  strike — into  what  Joe 
calls  revolution." 

"You  may  be  right,"  I  said  doggedly.  "But  I  don't 
believe  it." 


CHAPTEK   VIII 

A  FEW  days  later  Joe  called  me  up  and  asked  me  to 
come  down  to  his  office.  His  reason  for  wanting  to  see  me, 
he  said,  he'd  rather  not  give  me  over  the  'phone. 

"You're  right,"  I  told  Eleanore  dismally.  "He's  going 
to  talk  to  me  about  Sue." 

I  dreaded  this  talk,  and  I  went  to  see  Joe  in  no  easy 
frame  of  mind.  But  it  was  not  about  Sue.  I  saw  that 
in  my  first  glimpse  of  his  face.  He  sat  half  around 
in  his  office  chair  listening  intensely  to  a  man  by  his 
side. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  Jim  Marsh,"  he  said. 

I  felt  a  little  electric  shock.  So  here  was  the  great  mob 
agitator,  the  notorious  leader  of  strikes.  Eleanore's  words 
came  into  my  mind:  "We're  to  meet  all  the  wild  ones. 
We're  to  be  drawn  right  into  this  strike — into  what  Joe 
calls  revolution."  Well,  here  was  the  arch-revolutionist, 
the  prime  mover  of  them  all.  Of  middle  size,  about  forty 
years  old,  angular  and  wiry,  there  was  a  lithe  easy  force 
in  his  limbs,  but  he  barely  moved  as  he  spoke  to  me  now. 
He  just  turned  his  narrow  bony  face  and  gave  me  a  glance 
with  his  keen  gray  eyes. 

"I've  known  your  work  for  quite  a  while,"  he  said  in 
a  low  drawling  voice.  "Joe  says  you're  thinking  of  writ 
ing  me  up." 

So  this  was  why  Joe  had  sent  for  me.  I  had  quite  for 
gotten  this  idea,  but  I  took  to  it  eagerly  now.  My  work 
was  going  badly.  Here  was  something  I  could  do,  the  life 
story  of  a  man  whose  picture  would  soon  be  on  the  front 
page  of  every  paper  in  New  York.  It  would  interest  my 

269 


270  THE    HARBOR 

magazine,  it  would  give  me  a  chance  to  get  myself  clear  on 
this  whole  ugly  business  of  labor,  poverty  and  strikes.  I 
had  evaded  it  long  enough,  I  would  turn  and  face  it 
squarely  now. 

"Why  yes,  I'd  like  to  try,"  I  said. 

"He  wants  to  do  your  picture  with  the  America  you 
know,"  said  Joe.  "He  says  he's  ready  to  be  shown." 

Marsh  glanced  out  at  the  harbor. 

"If  he'll  trail  around  with  us  for  a  while  we  may  show 
him  some  of  it  here,"  he  drawled.  And  then  quietly  ig 
noring  my  presence  he  continued  his  talk  with  Joe,  as 
though  taking  it  for  granted  that  I  was  an  interested 
friend.  I  listened  there  all  afternoon.  _ 

The  thing  that  struck  me  most  at  first  was  the  cool 
effrontery  of  the  man  in  undertaking  such  a  struggle.  The 
old  type  of  labor  leader  had  at  least  stuck  to  one  industry, 
and  had  known  by  close  experience  what  he  had  to  face. 
But  here  was  a  mere  outsider,  a  visitor  strolling  into  a 
place  and  saying,  "I  guess  I'll  stop  all  this."  Vaguely  I 
knew  what  he  had  to  contend  with.  Sitting  here  in  this 
cheap  bare  room,  the  thought  of  other  rooms  rose  in  my 
mind,  spacious,  handsomely  furnished  rooms  where  at  one 
time  or  another  I  had  interviewed  heads  of  foreign  ship 
companies,  railroad  presidents,  bankers  and  lawyers^ 
newspaper  editors,  men  representing  enormous  wealth. 
All  these  rooms  had  been  parts  of  my  harbor — a  massed 
array  of  money  and  brains.  He  would  have  all  this 
against  him.  And  to  such  a  struggle  I  could  see  no  end 
for  him  but  jail. 

For  against  all  this,  on  his  side,  was  a  chaotic  army  of 
ignorant  men,  stokers,  dockers,  teamsters,  scattered  all 
over  this  immense  region,  practically  unorganized.  What 
possible  chance  to  bring  them  together?  How  could  he 
feel  that  he  had  a  chance?  How  much  did  he  already 
know  ? 

I  asked  him  what  he  had  seen  of  the  harbor.  For  days, 
I  learned,  he  had  told  no  one  but  Joe  of  his  coming,  he 


THE   HARBOR  271 

had  wandered  about  the  port  by  himself.  And  as  a  vet 
eran  tramp  will  in  some  mysterious  fashion  get  the  feel  of 
a  new  town  within  a  few  short  hours  there,  so  Marsh  had 
got  the  feel  of  this  place — of  a  harbor  different  from, 
mine,  for  he  felt  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  its  hundred 
thousand  laborers.  He  felt  it  with  its  human  fringe,  he 
saw  its  various  tenement  borders  like  so  many  camps  and 
bivouacs  on  the  eve  of  a  battle. 

He  told  a  little  incident  of  how  the  harbor  learned  he 
was  here.  About  nine  o'clock  one  morning,  as  he  was 
waiting  his  chance  to  get  into  one  of  the  North  Elver 
docks,  a  teamster  recognized  him  there  from  a  picture  of 
him  he  had  once  seen.  The  news  traveled  swiftly  along 
the  docks,  out  onto  piers  and  into  ships.  And  at  noon,  way 
over  in  Hoboken,  Marsh  had  overheard  a  German  docker 
say  to  the  man  eating  lunch  beside  him, 

"I  hear  dot  tamn  fool  anarchist  Marsh  is  raising  hell 
ofer  dere  in  New  York." 

"But  I  wasn't  raising  hell,"  he  drawled.  "I  was  over 
here  studying  literature."  And  he  drew  out  from  his 
pocket  a  tattered  copy  of  a  report,  the  result  of  a  careful 
investigation  of  work  on  the  docks,  made  recently  by  a 
most  conservative  philanthropic  organization. 

"  'In  all  the  fierce  rush  of  American  industry,' "  he 
read,  with  a  quiet  smile  of  derision,  "  'no  work  is  so  long, 
so  irregular  or  more  full  of  danger.  Seven  a.  m.  until 
midnight  is  a  common  work  day  here,  and  in  the  rush 
season  of  winter  when  ships  are  often  delayed  by  storms 
and  so  must  make  up  time  in  port,  the  same  men  often, 
work  all  day  and  night  and  even  on  into  the  following  day, 
with  only  hour  and  half-hour  stops  for  coffee,  food  or 
liquor.  This  strain  makes  for  accidents.  From  police  re 
ports  and  other  sources  we  find  that  six  thousand  killed 
and  injured  every  year  on  the  docks  is  a  conservative  esti 
mate.'  ' 

Marsh  glanced  dryly  up  at  me : 

"Here's  the  America  I  know." 


272  THE    HARBOR 

I  said  nothing.  I  was  appalled.  Six  thousand  killed 
and  injured!  I  could  feel  his  sharp  gray  eyes  boring 
down  into  my  soul : 

"You  wrote  up  this  harbor  onoe." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Did  you  write  this?" 

"No.    I  would  have  said  it  was  a  lie." 

"Do  you  say  so  now?  These  people  are  a  careful 
crowd."  I  took  the  pamphlet  from  his  hands. 

"Queer,"  I  muttered  vaguely.  "I  never  saw  this  report 
before." 

"Not  so  queer,"  he  answered.  "I'm  told  that  it  wasn't 
meant  to  be  seen — by  you  and  the  general  public.  That's 
the  way  this  society  works.  They  spend  half  a  dead  old 
lady's  cash  investigating  poverty  and  the  other  half  in 
keeping  the  public  from  learning  what  they've  discovered. 
But  we're  going  to  furnish  publicity  to  this  secluded  work 
of  art. 

"On  Saturday  afternoon,"  he  continued,  "I  went  along 
the  North  River  docks.  I  found  long  lines  of  dockers 
there — they  were  waiting  for  their  pay.  At  every  pay 
window  one  of  'em  stood  with  an  empty  cigar  box  in  his 
hands — and  into  that  box  every  man  as  he  passed  dropped 
a  part  of  his  pay — for  the  man  who  had  been  hurt  that 
week — for  him  or  for  his  widow. 

"And  over  across  the  way,"  he  went  on,  "I  saw  some 
thing  on  the  waterfront  that  fitted  right  into  the  scenery. 
It  was  a  poster  on  a  high  fence,  and  it  had  a  black  border 
around  it.  On  one  side  of  it  was  a  picture  of  a  tall  gent 
in  a  swell  frock  suit.  He  was  looking  squarely  at  the 
docks  and  pointing  to  the  sign  beside  him,  which  said, 
'Certainly  I'm  talking  to  you!  Money  saved  is  money 
earned.  Read  what  I  will  furnish  you  for  seventy-five 
dollars — cash.  Black  cloth  or  any  color  you  like — plush 
or  imitation  oak — casket  with  a  good  white  or  cream  lin 
ing — pillow — burial  suit  or  brown  habit — draping  and 
embalming  room — chairs — hearse — three  coaches — com- 


THE    HARBOR  273 

plete  care  and  attendance — also  handsome  candelabra  and 
candles  if  requested.' ' 

As  Marsh  read  this  grisly  list  from  his  notebook,  it 
suddenly  came  into  my  mind  that  in  my  explorations  years 
ago  I  had  seen  this  poster  at  many  points,  all  along  the 
waterfront.  It  had  made  no  impression  on  me  then,  for 
it  had  not  fitted  into  my  harbor.  But  Marsh  had  caught 
its  meaning  at  once  and  had  promptly  jotted  it  down 
for  use.  For  it  fitted  his  harbor  exactly. 

Vaguely,  in  this  and  a  dozen  ways,  I  could  feel  him 
taking  my  harbor  to  pieces,  transforming  each  piece  into 
something  grim  and  so  building  a  harbor  all  his  own. 
Disturbedly  and  angrily  I  struggled  to  find  the  flaws  in  his 
building,  eagerly  I  caught  at  distortions  here  and  there, 
twisted  facts  and  wrong  conclusions.  But  in  all  the  ter 
rible  stuff  which  he  had  so  hastily  gathered  here,  there 
was  so  much  that  I  could  not  deny.  And  he  gave  no 
chance  for  argument.  Quickly  jumping  from  point  to 
point  he  pictured  a  harbor  of  slaves  overburdened,  driven 
into  fierce  revolt.  It  was  hard  to  keep  my  footing. 

For  his  talk  was  not  only  of  this  harbor.  It  ranged  out 
over  an  ocean  world  which  was  all  in  a  state  of  ferment 
and  change.  Men  of  every  race  and  creed,  from  English, 
Germans,  Russians  to  Coolies,  Japs  and  Lascars,  had 
crowded  into  the  stokeholes,  mixing  bowls  for  all  the 
world.  And  the  mixing  process  had  begun.  At  Copen 
hagen,  two  years  before,  in  a  great  marine  convention  that 
followed  the  socialist  congress  there,  Marsh  had  seen  the 
delegates  from  seventeen  different  countries  representing 
millions  of  seamen.  And  this  crude  world  parliament, 
this  international  brotherhood,  had  placed  itself  on  record 
as  against  wars  of  every  kind,  except  the  one  deepening 
bitter  war  of  labor  against  capital.  To  further  this  they 
had  proposed  to  paralyze  by  strikes  the  whole  interna 
tional  transport  world.  The  first  had  followed  promptly, 
breaking  out  in  England.  The  second  was  to  take  place 
here. 


274  THE    HARBOR 

"You  don't  see  how  it  can  happen,"  said  Marsh,  with 
one  of  those  keen  sudden  looks  that  showed  he  was  aware 
of  my  presence.  "You  admit  this  place  is  a  watery  hell, 
but  you  don't  believe  we  can  change  it.  You  don't  see  how 
ignorant  mobs  of  men  can  rise  up  and  take  the  whole  game 
in  their  hands.  Do  I  get  you  right  ?" 

"You  do,"  I  said. 

"Look  over  there." 

I  followed  his  glance  to  the  doorway.  It  was  filled  with 
a  group  of  big  ragged  men.  Some  of  the  faces  were  black 
with  soot,  some  were  smiling  stolidly,  some  scowling  in 
the  effort  to  hear.  All  eyes  were  intent  on  the  face  of  the 
man  who  had  never  been  known  to  lose  a  strike. 

"That's  the  beginning,"  Marsh  told  me.  "You  keep 
your  eyes  on  their  faces — from  now  on  right  into  the  strike 
— and  you  may  see  something  grow  there  that'll  give  you 
a  new  religion." 

As  the  day  wore  into  evening  the  crowd  from  outside 
pressed  into  the  room  until  they  were  packed  all  around  us. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  said  Joe  at  last.  We  went  to  a 
neighboring  lunchroom  and  ate  a  hasty  supper.  But  as 
here,  too,  the  crowd  pressed  in  to  get  a  look  at  Marsh,  Joe 
asked  us  to  come  up  to  his  room. 

"They  know  your  room,"  Marsh  answered.  His  tone 
was  grim,  as  though  he  had  been  accustomed  for  years  to 
this  ceaselessly  curious  pressing  mass,  pressing,  pressing 
around  him  tight.  "Suppose  we  go  up  to  mine,"  he  said. 
"I  want  you  fellows  to  meet  my  wife.  She  has  never  met 
any  writers  before,"  he  added  to  me,  "and  she's  interested 
in  that  kind  of  thing.  She  was  a  music  teacher  once." 

I  was  about  to  decline  and  start  for  home,  but  suddenly 
I  recalled  Eleanore's  saying  that  she  would  like  to  meet 
Mrs.  Marsh.  So  I  accepted  his  invitation.  And  what  I 
saw  a  few  minutes  later  brought  me  down  abruptly  from 
these  world-wide  schemes  for  labor. 

We  entered  a  small,  cheap  hotel,  climbed  a  flight  of 
stairs  and  came  into  the  narrow  bedroom  which  was  for 


THE    HARBOR  275 

the  moment  this  notorious  wanderer's  home.  A  little  girl 
about  six  years  old  lay  asleep  on  a  cot  in  one  corner,  and 
under  the  one  electric  light  a  woman  sat  reading  a  maga 
zine.  She  had  a  strong  rather  clever  face  which  would 
have  been  appealing  if  it  were  not  for  the  bitter  impatient 
glance  she  gave  us  as  we  entered. 

"Talk  low,  boys,  our  little  girl's  asleep,"  Marsh  said. 
"Say,  Sally,"  he  continued,  with  his  faint,  derisive  smile, 
"here's  a  writer  come  to  see  you." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  then  relapsed 
into  a  stiff  silence.  I  tried  to  break  through  her  awkward 
ness  but  entirely  without  avail.  I  grew  more  and  more 
sure  of  my  first  impression,  that  this  woman  hated  her 
husband's  friends,  his  strikes,  his  "proletariate."  She 
was  smart,  pushing,  ambitious,  I  thought,  just  the  kind 
that  would  have  got  on  in  any  middle  western  town.  Elea- 
nore  must  meet  her. 

Then  presently  I  noticed  that  only  Marsh  was  talking. 
I  glanced  at  Joe  and  was  startled  by  the  intensity  in  his 
eyes. 

For  Joe  was  watching  his  leader's  wife.  And  watching, 
he  appeared  to  me  to  be  seeing  her  in  a  dreary  succession 
of  rooms  like  these,  in  cities,  towns  and  mining  camps, 
wherever  her  husband  was  leading  a  strike — and  then 
trying  to  see  his  own  home  in  such  rooms,  and  Sue  in  his 
home,  a  wife  like  this.  The  picture  struck  me  suddenly 
cold.  Sue  pulled  into  this  for  life !  Again  I  remembered 
Eleanore's  words — "Drawn  into  revolution." 

"Say,  Joe,"  drawled  Marsh,  with  a  sharp  look  at  him. 
"Got  any  of  that  typhoid  left  ?" 

Joe  laughed  quickly,  confusedly. 

Soon  after  that  I  left  them. 


CHAPTEE   IX 

THE  next  day  I  went  to  the  editor  for  whom  I  was 
doing  most  of  my  work.  When  I  told  him  I  wanted  to  try 
Jim  Marsh,  the  editor  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"Why  ?"  he  asked. 

I  spoke  of  the  impending  strike. 

"Have  you  met  Marsh  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  like  him?" 

"No." 

"But  he  struck  you  as  big." 

"Yes— he  did." 

"Are  you  getting  interested  in  strikes?" 

"I  want  to  see  a  big  one  close." 

"Why?" 

"Why  not?"  I  retorted.  '"They're  getting  to  be  sig 
nificant,  aren't  they?  I  want  to  see  what  they're  like 
inside."  The  editor  smiled : 

"You'll  find  them  rather  hot  inside.  Don't  get  over 
heated?' 

"Oh  you  needn't  think  I'll  lose  my  head." 

"I  hope  not,"  he  said  quietly.  "Go  ahead  with  your 
story  about  Marsh.  I'll  be  interested  to  see  what  you  do." 

I  went  out  of  the  office  in  no  easy  frame  of  mind.  The 
editor's  inquisitive  tone  had  started  me  thinking  of  how 
J.  K.  had  been  shut  out  by  the  papers  because  he  wrote 
"the  truth  about  things." 

"Oh  that's  all  rot,"  I  told  myself.  "Joe's  case  and  mine 
are  not  the  same.  The  magazines  aren't  like  the  papers 
and  I'm  not  like  Joe.  His  idea  of  the  truth  and  mine  will 
never  be  anywhere  near  alike." 

276 


THE    HARBOR  277 

But  what  would  Eleanore  think  of  it  ?  I  went  home!  and 
told  her  of  my  plan.  To  my  surprise  slje  made  no  ob 
jection. 

"It's  the  best  thing  you  can  do,"  she  said.  "We're  in 
this  now — on  account  of  Sue — we  can't  keep  out.  And  so 
long  as  we  are,  you  might  as  well  write  about  it,  too.  You 
think  so  much  better  when  you're  at  work — more  clearly — 
don't  you — and  that's  what  I  want."  She  was  looking  at 
me  steadily  out  of  those  gray-blue  eyes  of  hers.  "I  want 
you  to  think  yourself  all  out — as  clearly  as  you  possibly 
can — and  then  write  just  what  you  think,"  she  said.  "I 
want  you  to  feel  that  I'm  never  afraid  of  anything  you 
may  ever  write — so  long  as  you're  really  sure  it's  true." 

I  held  her  a  moment  in  my  arms  and  felt  her  tremble 
slightly.  And  then  she  said  with  her  old  quiet  smile : 

"Sue  has  asked  us  over  to  Brooklyn  to-night — Joe 
Kramer  is  to  be  there,  too." 

"That  affair  is  moving  rather  fast." 

"Oh  yes,  quite  fast,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

"How  will  Dad  look  at  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"As  you  did,"  said  Eleanore  dryly.  "He'll  look  at  it 
and  see  nothing  at  all." 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  tell  him!" 

"Don't,"  she  said.  "If  you  did  he  would  only  get  ex 
cited,  become  the  old-fashioned  father  and  order  Sue  to 
leave  Joe  alone — which  would  be  all  that  is  needed  now 
to  make  Sue  marry  Joe  in  a  week." 

"Sue  is  about  as  selfish,"  I  said  hotly,  "about  as 
1  wrapped  up  in  her  own  little  self " 

"As  any  girl  is  who  thinks  she's  in  love  but  isn't  sure," 
said  Eleanore.  "Sue  isn't  sure — poor  thing — she's  fright 
fully  unsettled." 

"But  why  drag  Joe  way  over  there  ?" 

"Because  she  wants  to  look  at  him  there.  It's  her  home, 
you  know,  her  whole  past  life,  all  that  she  has  been  used 
to.  It's  the  place  where  she  has  breakfast.  She  wants  to 
see  how  Joe  fits  in." 


278  THE    HARBOR 

"But  they'd  never  live  there  if  they  married !" 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Eleanore,  "that's  one  of  th«  ways 
a  girl  makes  up  her  mind."  She  looked  pityingly  into  my 
eyes.  "Women  are  beyond  you — aren't  they,  dear?"  she 
murmured. 

"J.  K.  isn't,"  I  rejoined.  "And  I  can't  see  him  in  any 
home!" 

"Can't  you?  Then  watch  him  a  little  closer  the  next 
time  he  comes  to  ours." 

I  went  out  for  a  walk  along  the  docks  and  tried  to  pic 
ture  the  coming  strike.  When  I  came  home  I  found  Joe 
there,  he  had  come  to  go  with  us  to  Brooklyn.  He  was 
sitting  on  the  floor  with  our  boy  gravely  intent  on  a  toy 
circus.  Neither  one  was  saying  a  word,  but  as  Joe  care 
fully  poised  an  elephant  on  the  top  of  a  tall  red  ladder,  I 
recalled  my  wife's  injunction.  By  Jove,  he  did  fit  into 
a  home,  here  certainly  was  a  different  Joe.  He  did  not 
see  me  at  the  door.  Later  I  called  to  him  from  our 
bedroom : 

"Say,  Joe.    Don't  you  want  to  come  in  and  wash  ?" 

He  came  in,  and  presently  watching  him  I  noticed  his 
glances  about  our  room.  It  was  most  decidedly  Eleanore's 
room,  from  the  flowered  curtains  to  the  warm  soft  rug  on 
the  floor.  It  was  gay,  it  was  quiet  and  restful,  it  was  in 
timately  personal.  Here  was  her  desk  with  a  small  heap 
of  letters  and  photographs  of  our  son  and  of  me,  and  here 
close  by  was  her  dressing-table  strewn  with  all  its  dainty 
equipment.  A  few  invitations  were  stuck  in  the  mirror. 
Eleanore's  hat  and  crumpled  white  gloves  lay  on  our  bed. 
I  had  thrown  my  coat  beside  them.  There  were  such 
things  in  this  small  room  as  Joe  had  never  dreamed  of. 

"Oh  Joe,"  said  Eleanore  from  the  hall.  "Don't  you 
want  to  come  into  the  nursery  ?  Somebody  wants  a  pillow 
fight." 

"Sure,"  said  Joe,  with  a  queer  little  start. 

"By  the  way,"  I  heard  her  add  outside.  "Billy  told  me 
he  saw  Mrs.  Marsh,  and  I  should  so  like  to  meet  her,  too. 


THE    HAEBOR  279 

Couldn't  you  have  us  all  down  to  your  room  some  even- 
ing?" 

"If  you  like,"  lie  answered  gruffly. 

"I'm  honestly  curious,"  Eleanore  said,  "to  see  what 
kind  of  a  person  she  is.  And  I'm  sure  that  Sue  is,  too. 
May  we  bring  her  with  us  ?" 

"Of  course  you  may — whenever  you  like." 

"Would  Friday  evening  be  too  soon  ?" 

"I'll  see  if  I  can  fix  it." 

When  Eleanore  came  in  to  me,  her  lips  were  set  tight  as 
though  something  had  hurt  her. 

"That  was  pretty  tough,"  I  muttered. 

"Yes,  wasn't  it,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  don't  care,  I'm 
not  going  to  have  him  marrying  Sue.  I'm  too  fond  of 
both  of  them.  Besides,  your  father  has  to  be  thought  of. 
It  would  simply  kill  him !" 

"Yes,"  I  thought  to  myself  that  night.  "No  doubt 
about  that,  it  would  kill  him." 

How  much  older  he  looked,  in  the  strong  light  of  the 
huge  old-fashioned  gas  lamp  that  hung  over  the  dining- 
room  table.  He  was  making  a  visible  effort  to  be  young 
and  genial.  He  had  not  seen  Joe  in  several  years,  and  he 
evidently  knew  nothing  whatever  of  what  Joe  was  up  to, 
except  that  he  had  been  ill  at  our  home.  Joe  spoke  of 
what  we  had  done  for  him,  and  Sue  eagerly  took  up  the 
cue,  keeping  the  talk  upon  us  and  "the  Indian,"  to  my 
father's  deep  satisfaction.  From  this  she  turned  to  our 
childhood  and  the  life  in  this  old  house.  Dad  pictured 
it  all  in  such  glowing  colors  I  recognized  almost  nothing 
as  real.  But  watching  Sue's  face  as  she  listened,  she 
seemed  to  me  trying  to  feel  again  as  she  had  felt  here 
long  ago  when  she  had  been  his  only  chum.  Every  few 
moments  she  would  break  off  to  throw  a  quick,  restless 
glance  at  Joe. 

When  the  time  came  for  us  to  go,  my  father  assured  us 
warmly  that  he  had  not  felt  so  young  in  years.  He  said 


280  THE   HARBOR 

we  had  so  stirred  him  up  that  he  must  take  a  book  and 
read  or  he  wouldn't  sleep  a  wink  all  night.  Joe  did  not 
come  away  with  us.  As  we  stood  all  together  at  the  door, 
I  saw  Eleanore  glance  into  Dad's  study  where  his  heavy 
leather  chair  was  waiting,  and  then  into  the  room  across 
the  hall  where  Sue  had  drawn  up  two  chairs  to  the  fire. 
And  I  thought  of  the  next  hour  or  two.  My  father  al 
ready  had  under  his  arm  a  book  on  American  shipping, 
which  told  about  the  old  despotic  sea  world  of  his  day,  in 
which  there  had  been  no  strikers  but  only  mutineers. 

"There's  very  little  time  to  lose,"  said  Eleanore  on  the 
way  home. 

'"Look  here,"  I  suggested.  "Why  don't  you  talk  this 
out  with  Sue,  and  tell  her  just  what  you  think  of  it  all  ?" 

"Because,"  said  Eleanore,  "what  I  think  and  what  you 
think  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  case.  Sue 
would  say  it  was  none  of  our  business.  And  she'd  be  quite 
right.  It  isn't." 

"Aren't  we  making  it  our  business  ?"  My  wife  at  times 
gets  me  so  confused. 

"I'm  not  telling  them  anything,"  she  rejoined.  "I'm 
only  trying  to  show  them  something  and  let  the  poor  idiots 
see  for  themselves.  If  they  won't  see,  it's  hopeless." 


CHAPTEE   X 

Oisr  Friday  evening  Sue  sent  word  that  she  would  be 
late  and  that  she  would  meet  us  at  Joe's  room.  So  we 
went  down  without  her. 

His  room  had  changed  since  I'd  seen  it  last,  I  took  in 
at  once  his  pathetic  attempts  to  fix  it  up  for  our  coming. 
Gone  were  the  dirty  curtains,  the  dirty  collars  and  shirts, 
and  the  bed  was  concealed  by  an  old  green  screen  bor 
rowed  from  his  landlady,  the  German  saloon-keeper's  wife 
below.  The  same  woman  had  scrubbed  the  floor  and  put 
down  a  faded  rag  carpet  in  front  of  the  old  fireplace,  in 
which  now  a  coal  fire  was  burning.  Poor  Joe  had  turned 
up  all  the  lights  to  make  things  bright  and  cheerful,  but  it 
only  showed  things  up  as  they  were.  The  room  was  glar 
ingly  forlorn. 

And  now  that  Eleanore  had  come,  her  presence  made 
him  feel  at  once  what  a  wretchedly  dreary  place  it  was. 
Eleanore  knew  what  she  wanted  to  do  and  she  had  dressed 
herself  for  the  part.  And  as  Joe  took  in  the  effect  of  her 
smart  little  suit,  and  waited  for  Sue  and  Mrs.  Marsh,  he 
became  so  anxious  and  gloomy  that  he  could  only  speak 
with  an  effort.  He  kept  glancing  uneasily  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  like  the  idea,"  said  Eleanore,  "of  Sue's  coming 
down  here  alone  at  night  through  this  part  of  town."  Joe 
looked  around  at  her  quickly.  "But  I  suppose,"  she  added 
thoughtfully,  "that  she'd  have  to  get  used  to  queer  parts 
of  towns  if  she  ever  took  up  the  life  you  spoke  of." 

"I  don't  think  that  would  bother  her,"  Joe  answered 
gruffly. 

Presently  there  was  a  step  on  the  stairs.  He  jumped  up 
and  went  to  the  door,  and  a  moment  later  Sue  entered 
the  room. 

281 


282  THE    HARBOR 

Immediately  its  whole  atmosphere  changed.  Sue  was 
plainly  excited.  She,  too,  had  dressed  herself  with  care — 
or  rather  with  a  careful  neglect.  She  wore  the  oldest  suit 
she  had  and  a  simple  blouse  with  a  gay  red  tie.  With  one 
sharp  glance  at  Eleanore,  she  took  in  the  strained  situa 
tion  and  set  about  to  ease  it. 

"What  a  nice  old  fireplace,"  she  exclaimed.  "Let's  turn 
down  the  lights  and  draw  'round  the  fire.  You  need  more 
chairs,  Joe ;  go  down  and  get  some." 

And  soon  with  the  lights  turned  low  and  the  coals  stirred 
into  a  ruddy  glow,  we  were  sitting  in  quite  a  dramatic 
place,  the  scene  was  set  for  "revolution."  The  curtain- 
less  windows  vmre  no  longer  bleak,  for  through  them  from 
the  now  darkened  room,  we  looked  out  on  the  lights  of  the 
harbor.  Sue  thought  the  view  thrilling,  and  equally 
thrilling  she  found  the  last  issue  of  Joe's  weekly  paper, 
War  Sure,  which  lay  on  the  table.  It  was  called  "Our 
Special  Sabotage  Number,"  and  in  it  various  stokers  and 
dockers,  in  response  to  an  appeal  from  Joe,  had  crudely 
written  their  ideas  upon  just  how  the  engines  of  a  ship 
or  the  hoisting  winches  on  a  dock  could  be  most  effectively 
put  out  of  order  in  time  of  strike.  "So  that  the  scabs," 
wrote  one  contributor,  "can  see  how  they  like  it." 

"Why  not  have  blue-penciled  some  of  this?"  I  asked, 
with  a  faint  premonition  of  trouble  ahead. 

"Because  Joe  believes  in  free  speech,  I  suppose,"  Sue 
answered  for  him  quickly. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  lawyer,  Joe,"  I  said.  "But  this 
stuff  looks  to  me  a  good  deal  like  incitement  to  violence." 

"Possibly,"  J.  K.  replied. 

"You  don't  look  horribly  frightened,"  laughed  Sue. 
And  she  wanted  to  hear  all  the  latest  strike  news.  The 
time  was  rapidly  drawing  near.  It  was  now  close  to  the 
end  of  March  and  the  strike  was  expected  in  April. 

When  Marsh  arrived  about  nine  o'clock,  there  was  an 
awkward  moment.  For  behind  him  came  his  wife  and 
their  small  daughter,  both  of  whom  were  stiffly  dressed, 


THE    HARBOR  283 

and  with  one  glance  at  Eleanore  they  felt  immediately  out 
of  place.  Mrs.  Marsh  was  even  more  hostile  and  curt  than 
when  I  had  seen  her  last.  She  was  angry  at  having  been 
dragged  into  this  and  took  little  pains  to  hide  it. 

"My  husband  would  have  me  come/'  she  said.  "And 
I  couldn't  leave  my  little  girl,  so  I  had  to  bring  her  along." 
And  she  stopped  abruptly  with  a  look  that  asked  us  plainly, 
"Now  that  I'm  here,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"How  old  is  your  little  girl  ?"  Eleanore  inquired. 

"Six  last  month." 

"Are  you  going  to  put  her  in  school  in  New  York  ?" 

And  in  spite  of  short  suspicious  replies  she  soon  had 
Mrs.  Marsh  and  her  child  talking  of  kindergartens  and 
parks  and  other  parts  of  the  town  they  must  see.  Sue  was 
now  eagerly  talking  to  Marsh,  Joe  was  beside  her  helping 
her  out,  and  both  seemed  wholly  to  have  forgotten  the  dis 
turbing  woman  behind  them.  But  by  the  quick  looks  that 
Eleanore  gave  them  now  and  then,  I  could  see  she  was  only 
holding  back  until  she  should  have  Mrs.  Marsh  in  a  mood 
where  she  could  be  brought  into  the  talk  and  made  to  tell 
about  her  life. 

"Don't  you  ever  want  to  settle  down  ?"  she  asked  when 
there  had  come  a  pause.  Marsh  turned  abruptly  to  Elea 
nore. 

"Of  course  she  does,"  he  answered.  "Did  you  ever 
know  a  woman  who  didn't,  the  minute  that  she  got  a  kid  ? 
But  my  wife  can't,  if  she  sticks  to  me.  She  has  had  to 
make  up  her  mind  to  live  in  any  old  place  that  comes 
along,  from  a  dollar  room  in  a  cheap  hotel  to  a  shanty  in 
a  mining  camp."  And  his  look  at  Eleanore  seemed  to 
add,  "That's  the  kind  she  is,  you  little  doll." 

Eleanore  quickly  made  herself  look  as  much  like  a  doll 
as  possible.  She  placidly  folded  her  dainty  gloved  hands. 

"I  should  think,"  she  murmured  in  ladylike  tones, 
"Mrs.  Marsh  would  find  that  rather  difficult." 

"She  does,"  said  Marsh  aggressively.  "But  my  wife 
has  nerve  enough  to  stand  up  to  the  rough  side  of  life — 


284  THE    HARBOR 

as  the  wives  c !;  most  workingmen  have  to — in  this  rich  and 
glorious  land." 

"Won't  you  tell  us  about  it?"  asked  Eleanore  sweetly. 
"I  should  be  so  interested  to  hear.  It's  so  different,  you 
see,  from  all  I've  been  accustomed  to." 

"Yes,"  Marsh  answered  grimly,  "I've  no  doubt  it  is. 
Go  ahead,  Sally,  and  tell  them  about  it." 

And  Sally  did.  Gladly  taking  her  husband's  aggressive 
tone,  she  started  out  almost  with  a  sneer.  Her  remarks  at 
first  were  disjointed  and  brief,  but  I  told  her  I  was  writing 
the  story  of  her  husband's  life,  that  I  wanted  her  side  of 
it  from  the  start.  I  promised  to  show  her  what  I  wrote 
and  let  her  cut  anything  she  had  told  me  if  she  did  not 
want  it  in  print.  And  so  in  scattered  incidents,  with  bits 
thrown  in  now  and  then  by  Marsh,  the  lives  of  these  two 
began  to  come  out.  And  we  understood  her  bitterness. 

"Mr.  Marsh  was  born,"  she  said,  "in  one  of  the  poorest 
little  towns  in  Southern  Iowa.  It  was  nothing  but  a  hole 
of  a  place  about  six  miles  from  the  county  seat  where  my 
father  was  a  lawyer.  But  even  in  that  little  hole  his  family, 
was  the  poorest  there.  I've  been  all  over  the  States  since 
then,  and  I've  seen  poor  people,  the  Lord  knows — but  Ij 
want  to  say  I've  never  seen  people  anywhere  that  were  any 
worse  off  than  my  husband  was  when  he  was  a  boy.  And 
yet  he  got  out  of  it  all  by  himself.  He  didn't  need  any 
strikes  to  help  him." 

"But  of  course,"  Sue  put  in  smoothly,  "your  husband 
was  an  exceptional  man."  Mrs.  Marsh  threw  her  a  bitter 
glance. 

"He  might  have  been,"  she  answered. 

"What  was  he  like  as  a  boy  ?"  I  asked. 

"A  fighter,"  she  said.  For  a  moment  her  sharp  voice 
grew  proud.  "His  father  took  diabetes  and  died,  and  they 
went  into  debt  to  bury  him.  Jim  helped  his  mother  run 
the  farm  and  missed  half  his  schooling.  But  his  teacher 
loaned  him  text-books — and  at  home  they  had  no  candles, 


1HE   HARBOR  285 

so  he  used  to  work  with  his  back  to  the  fire — half  the 
night.  My  father  used  to  call  him  a  regular  little  Honest 
Abe.  That's  a  surprise  to  you,  isn't  it,"  she  added  with  a 
hard  little  laugh. 

"But  then  the  town  had  a  sudden  boom.  A  new  branch 
of  the  railroad  came  through  that  way  and  houses  and 
stores  went  up  over  night.  Jim  was  only  sixteen  then,  but 
he  grabbed  the  chance  to  get  into  the  building.  In  less 
than  a  year  he  had  earned  enough  money  so  he  could  quit 
and  go  to  school.  He  came  over  to  high  school  in  our 
town,  walking  his  six  miles  twice  a  day.  And  that's  where 
I  met  him. 

"My  father  took  a  shine  to  him  right  off  and  promised 
to  make  him  a  lawyer.  He  loaned  him  law  books  the  first 
year,  and  the  second  Jim  worked  in  his  office."  She  looked 
for  a  moment  at  the  wall.  "I  expect  it's  not  a  love  story 
you're  after — so  I'll  leave  that  part  of  it  out.  Papa  was 
mad  when  I  broke  the  news — and  I  can't  say  I  blame  him. 
He  was  the  richest  man  in  town,  the  railroad  lawyer  of 
the  place — and  he  had  meant  that  I  should  go  to  a  polish 
ing  school  in  St.  Louis. 

"Well,  I  did  go  to  St.  Louis,  but  I  was  eloping  at  the 
time  and  I  became  Jim's  wife.  We  had  a  hard  fight  for  a 
year  or  two,  but  we  made  up  our  minds  we'd  make  it  go. 
Jim  got  a  job  on  a  skyscraper  which  was  going  up  at  that 
time.  I  got  him  his  breakfast  at  six  every  morning  and 
he  got  home  about  seven  at  night,  and  right  after  supper 
he  went  at  his  Blackstone  and  dug  into  it  all  evening.  As 
a  rule  he  got  to  bed  at  one,  and  five  hours'  sleep  was  all  he 
had — with  a  few  hours  extra  Sundays. 

"I  knew  a  girl  from  home  in  St.  Louis  whose  husband 
was  making  money  fast.  But  Jim  was  too  proud  to  make 
use  of  my  friends  or  go  to  her  home  when  wo  were  invited. 
We  missed  three  card  parties  on  that  account.  But  she 
helped  me  get  some  pupils  and  I  gave  piano  lessons.  When 
my  baby  was  born  I  had  to  quit — hut  I  thought  we  were 
out  of  the  woods  by  then,  for  Jim  was  made  foreman  of 


286  THE    HARBOR 

his  gang  and  was  raised  to  a  hundred  dollars  a  month. 
We  moved  from  our  boarding  house  into  a  flat.  I  hired  a 
young  Swedish  girl  and  began  to  feel  that  I  knew  where 
I  was. 

"But  then  the  building  workers  struck.  Jim  had  al 
ways  been  popular  with  his  men,  and  now  he  wanted  his 
boss  to  give  them  half  of  what  they  asked  for.  But  his 
boss  didn't  see  it  that  way  at  all,  and  he  and  Jim  had 
trouble.  The  next  week  Jim  decided  he  wouldn't  manage 
what  he  called  'scabs.'  So  he  left  his  employment,  went 
in  with  the  men  and  made  the  strike  a  great  success.  That 
left  him  leader  of  their  union.  The  salary  they  paid  him 
was  eighty  dollars  instead  of  a  hundred — so  I  let  our 
Swedish  girl  go. 

"He  said  his  new  position  would  give  him  more  time  to 
study  law.  But  it  didn't  turn  out  quite  that  way.  He  got 
so  wrapped  up  in  his  union  affairs  that  he  had  no  time  for 
his  law  books.  One  day  I  put  them  up  on  a  shelf  and 
found  he  didn't  notice  it." 

Eleanore  suddenly  tightened  at  this,  a  quick  sympathy 
came  into  her  eyes.  Sue  gave  a  restless  little  sigh. 

"He'd  be  out  at  meetings  most  every  night,"  Mrs.  Marsh 
continued.  "At  the  end  of  the  year  he  was  one  of  three 
leaders  in  a  strike  of  all  the  building  trades  in  town.  All 
work  of  that  kind  in  the  city  was  stopped  and  things  got 
very  ugly.  One  night  a  man  came  to  our  flat  and  informed 
me  that  my  husband  was  in  jail.  I  went  to  the  jail  the 
next  morning  and  saw  him.  We  had  quite  a  talk.  And 
that  afternoon  I  gave  up  our  flat." 

"Why  ?"  asked  Eleanore  softly. 

"I  presumed  the  landlord  wished  it,"  said  Mrs.  Marsh 
without  looking  around.  "I  took  a  room  in  a  cheap  hotel. 
Mr.  Marsh  came  out  of  jail  with  ideas  that  were  all  new  to 
me.  He  had  left  his  old  trade  union  and  gone  in  with  a 
new  crowd  of  men  who  stood  for  out-and-out  revolution — 
which  I  couldn't  understand.  But  we  made  the  best  of  it. 
We  went  to  the  theater  that  night  and  then  he  took  the 


THE    HARBOR  287 

midnight  train  on  one  of  his  first  labor  trips.  At  first 
these  trips  were  only  for  a  week  or  so,  but  as  time  went  on 
they  grew  longer.  As  a  rule  I  never  wrote  him  because 
I  never  knew  his  address.  On  one  trip  he  was  away  five 
weeks — and  before  he  got  back  there  was  time  enough  for 
my  second  baby,  a  little  boy,  to  be  born  and  die  of  pneu 
monia." 

Eleanore  flinched  as  though  that  had  hurt.  I  saw  her 
turn  and  look  at  Sue,  who  seemed  even  more  restless  than 
before. 

"You  decided  to  travel  with  him  then — didn't  you?" 
Eleanore  murmured. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  gruffly.  "We  used  to  try  to  figure 
out  what  city  he  would  likely  be  in,  or  at  least  not  far 
away  from — and  then  my  little  girl  and  I  would  find  a 
place  to  board  there.  It  has  been  like  that  for  the  past 
four  years.  In  that  time  we've  lived  in  fourteen  places 
all  the  way  between  here  and  the  Coast." 

"Have  you  lived  all  the  time  at  hotels  ?"  Eleanore  in 
quired. 

"We  have,"  said  the  woman  curtly,  "but  hardly  the  kind 
you're  accustomed  to.  As  a  rule,  as  soon  as  we  reach  a 
town  my  husband's  name  appears  in  the  papers,  and  on 
that  account  the  more  refined  houses  wouldn't  care  to  keep 
us  long." 

Eleanore  leaned  forward,  her  eyes  troubled  and  intent. 
She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Sue. 

"How  do  you  know  they  wouldn't  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  found  out  by  trying — twice." 

I  heard  a  sudden  angry  creak  in  the  battered  old  chair 


in  which  Sue  was  sitting. 

u 


So  my  little  girl  Lucy  and  I,"  the  embittered  voice 
went  on,  "go  to  hotels  that  don't  ask  many  questions.  We 
pass  the  time  going  to  parks  or  museums — or  now  and  then 
to  a  concert — where  I  try  to  give  her  a  taste  for  good 
music." 

"Do  you  find  time  to  keep  up  your  music  ?"  I  asked. 


288  THE   HARBOR 

"There's  time  enough,"  came  the  quick  reply.  "You 
see  as  a  rule  I'm  just  waiting  around.  One  night  in  Pitts 
burgh  it  was  my  birthday,  and  as  the  Grand  Opera  was 
there  for  a  week  and  I  had  never  been  to  one,  I  got  Mr. 
Marsh  to  take  me.  We  made  it  a  regular  celebration,  with 
dinner  in  a  first-class  restaurant  just  for  once.  But  my 
husband  is  generally  watched,  and  the  papers  all  took  it 
up  the  next  day.  'Marsh  and  wife  dine  and  see  opera 
after  his  speech  to  starving  strikers,'  or  similar  words  to 
that  effect." 

"Do  you  see  anything  of  the  strikers  ?"  I  asked. 

"Not  much,"  she  replied.  "We  used  to  be  invited  to  go 
to  parties  at  their  homes.  But  most  of  them,  even  the 
leaders,  were  Irish,  Germans,  Italians  or  Jews  whose 
wives  could  barely  speak  English.  I  i ound  them  not  very 
pleasant  affairs.  Some  of  the  wives  drank  a  good  deal  of 
beer  and  most  of  them  had  very  little  to  say.  Strike 
dances  were  no  better.  The  wives  as  a  rule  sat  with  their 
children  around  the  walls — while  a  lot  of  young  factory 
girls,  Jewesses  for  the  most  part,  danced  turkey  trots 
around  the  hall." 

"There  were  speeches,  I  suppose?"  Sue  put  in  impa 
tiently.  ' 

"Yes — Mr.  Marsh  and  others  made  speeches  between 
dances.  They  weren't  the  kind  of  affairs  I'd  been  used  to 
in  our  home  town,"  said  Mrs.  Marsh.  "I've  lost  track  of 
the  folks  at  home.  I  never  write  and  they  don't  write  me. 
Only  once  when  my  mother  knew  where  I  was  she  sent  me 
a  box  at  Christmas.  Lucy  and  I  got  quite  excited  over 
that  box,  it  was  all  the  presents  we'd  had  from  outside  in 
quite  a  line  of  Christmases.  So  we  thought  we'd  cele 
brate." 

"How  did  you  celebrate  Christmas?"  Eleanore  asked 
softly. 

"We  went  out  and  bought  a  tree  and  candles,  some  gold 
balls  and  popcorn  and  all  the  other  fixings.  And  we 
popped  the  corn  over  the  gas  that  night.  The  next  day  we 


THE    HARBOR  289 

bought  things  for  each  other's  stockings.  Lucy  was  then 
only  four  years  old,  but  I'd  leave  her  at  a  counter  and  tell 
the  clerk  to  let  her  have  all  she  wanted  to  buy  for  me  up  to 
a  dollar.  That  was  how  we  worked  it.  The  next  night  we 
had  the  tree  in  our  room.  I  got  Mr.  Marsh  to  help  me  trim 
it.  At  last  we  lit  the  candles  and  let  Lucy  in  from  the 
hotel  hall,  where  she'd  nearly  caught  her  death  of  cold. 
Then  we  opened  the  box  from  home.  There  was  a  doll  for 
Lucy  and  a  framed  photograph  of  my  mother  for  me — 
and  for  Mr.  Marsh  a  Bible.  He  got  laughing  over  that 
and  so  did  I.  And  that  ended  Christmas. 

"We  had  another  Christmas  last  year,"  she  said  in  a 
slow,  intense  sort  of  way  as  though  seeing  the  place  as 
she  spoke,  "in  a  mining  town  in  Montana,  where  Jim  had 
been  in  jail  five  days  and  the  whole  place  was  under 
martial  law.  A  major  of  the  militia  came  to  me  on  Christ 
mas  Eve.  He  claimed  that  Jim  had  been  seen  by  de 
tectives  traveling  with  another  woman  and  that  I  was  not 
his  wife.  They  locked  me  up  for  two  hours  that  night  as 
an  immoral  woman." 

Sue  was  sitting  rigid  now,  her  lips  pressed  tight.  And 
Joe  with  a  strained  unnatural  face  was  staring  into  the 
fire. 

"But  of  course,"  Mrs.  Marsh  concluded,  "most  of  the 
time  it  isn't  like  that.  As  a  rule  when  we  come  to  a  city 
nothing  especial  happens  at  all.  We  just  take  a  room 
like  the  one  we  have  now  and  wait  till  the  strike  is  over. 
I've  got  so  I  have  a  queer  view  of  towns.  I'm  always  there 
at  the  time  of  a  strike,  when  crowds  of  Italians  and  Poles 
and  Jews  fill  the  streets  on  parade  or  jam  into  halls  and 
talk  about  running  the  world  by  themselves.  And  I  guess 
they're  going  to  do  it  some  day — but  I  presume  not  by 
to-morrow." 

For  some  time  while  she  was  speaking  her  eyes  had 
been  fixed  steadily  upon  Joe's  only  picture.  It  stood  on 
the  mantel,  a  big  charcoal  sketch  of  a  crowd  of  immigrants 
just  leaving  Ellis  Island.  They  were  of  all  races.  Un- 


290  THE    HARBOR 

couth,  heavy,  stolid,  with  that  hungry  hope  in  all  their 
eyes  for  more  of  the  good  things  of  the  earth,  they  seemed 
like  some  barbaric  horde  about  to  pour  in  over  the  land. 
With  her  eyes  upon  their  faces  in  deep,  quiet  hatred  this 
woman  from  the  Middle  West  had  told  the  story  of  her  life. 

"Well,  Sally,"  said  her  husband,  who  had  grown  restive 
toward  the  end,  "I  guess  that'll  do.  Let'r  go  on  home." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  ready,"  she  quickly  replied.  Now  that 
she  had  come  out  of  herself  she  seemed  angry  at  having 
told  so  much. 

When  they  had  left  there  was  a  silence,  which  Sue  broke 
with  a  breath  of  impatience. 

"What  a  frightful  thing  it  must  be  for  a  man  in  this 
work,"  she  exclaimed,  "to  have  a  wife  like  that !  A  woman 
so  hard  and  narrow,  so  wrapped  up  in  her  own  little 
life,  with  not  a  spark  of  sympathy  for  any  of  his  big 
ideals!" 

"I  suppose  it's  the  life  that  has  done  it,"  said  Eleanore 
quietly,  looking  at  Sue. 

"I'd  like  to  see  some  women,"  Sue  retorted  angrily, 
"who  have  been  in  that  life  for  years  and  years,  and  have 
sympathy,  have  everything,  don't  care  for  anything  else 
in  the  world!"  She  turned  suddenly  to  Joe.  "You  said 
there  were  hundreds,  didn't  you  ?" 

Joe  looked  back  at  her  a  moment.  There  was  a  startled, 
groping,  searching  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "There  are  hundreds." 

"Are  many  of  them  married  ?"  Eleanore  inquired. 

"Some  of  them  are,"  he  answered. 

"When  a  woman  who,  as  Sue  has  just  said,  throws  her 
self  into  this  heart  and  soul,  marries  a  man  wLo  is  in  it, 
too,  how  much  of  their  time  can  they  spend  together  ?" 

"That  depends  on  the  kind  of  work,"  he  said.  Eleanore 
held  his  eyes  with  hers. 

"In  some  cases,  I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  "like  yours, 
for  example,  where  the  man's  work  keeps  him  moving — 


THE   HARBOR  291 

if  the  woman's  work  wouldn't  let  her  go  with  him  they 
would  have  to  be  half  their  time  apart." 

"Yes." 

"As  Mrs.  Marsh  and  her  husband  were  at  the  time  when 
her  second  baby  was  born." 

"Yes,"  said  Joe,  still  watching  her. 

"Aren't  there  a  good  many,  too,  who  don't  exactly  marry 
— but  marry  just  a  little — one  woman  here,  another  there, 
and  so  on  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Joe,  "there  are  some  who  do  that." 

"I  should  think,"  said  Eleanore  thoughtfully,  "that  in  a 
movement  of  this  kind  a  man  ought  not  to  marry  at  all — 
or  else  marry  a  little  a  good  many  times — so  as  always  to 
be  free  for  the  Cause." 

"Unless,"  said  Joe,  quite  steadily,  "he  finds  a  woman 
like  some  I've  known,  whose  feeling  for  a  man,  one  man, 
seems  to  be  planted  in  her  for  life — who  can  easily  stand 
not  being  with  him  because  she  herself  is  deep  in  her  own 
job,  and  her  job  is  about  the  same  as  his — and  because  the 
two  of  them  have  decided  to  see  the  whole  job  through  to 
the  end." 

His  eyes  went  up  to  the  charcoal  sketch. 

"It's  a  job  worth  seeing  through,"  he  said. 

Sue  was  leaning  forward  now. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  picture,  Joe  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  an  illustration,"  he  said,  "for  a  thing  I  once  had 
in  a  magazine."  And  then  as  though  almost  forgetting  us 
all,  his  eyes  still  upon  those  immigrant  faces,  he  said  with 
a  slow,  rough  intensity : 

"I  know  every  figure  in  it.  I  know  just  where  they're 
strong  and  where  each  one  of  'em  is  weak.  I've  never 
made  gods  out  of  'em.  But  I  know  they  do  all  the  real 
work  in  the  world.  They're  the  ones  who  get  all  the  rotten 
deals,  the  ones  who  get  shot  down  in  wars  and  worked  like 
dogs  in  time  of  peace.  They're  the  ones  who  are  ready  to 
go  out  on  strike  and  risk  their  lives  to  change  all  this. 
They're  the  people  worth  spending  your  life  with.  But 


292  THE    HARBOR 

it's  a  job  for  your  whole  life — and  before  a  man  or  a 
woman  jumps  in  they  want  to  be  sure  they're  ready." 

He  did  not  look  at  Sue  as  he  spoke.  He  seemed  barely 
able  to  hold  himself  in.  His  relief  was  plain  when  we 
took  her  away. 

Sue  took  a  car  to  Brooklyn  and  we  started  homeward. 
Eleanore  wanted  to  walk  for  a  while.  She  walked  quickly, 
her  face  set. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  Sue,"  she  said.  "I  was  thinking 
of  Mrs.  Marsh.  I've  never  tormented  a  woman  like  that 
and  I  never  will  again  in  my  life — not  for  Sue  or  anyone 
else — she  can  marry  anybody  she  likes!" 

"Well,  she  won't  marry  Joe,"  I  said.  "Did  you  see  his 
face — poor  devil  ?  You've  certainly  settled  that  affair." 

"Have  I  ?"  she  asked  sharply.  And  then  her  curious 
feminine  mind  took  a  long  leap.  "And  what  ar  ^  you  going 
to  be,"  she  asked,  "in  a  year  from  now  ?"  I  smiled  at  her. 

"Not  a  second  Marsh,"  I  said.  "But  even  if  I  were  tho 
man  in  the  moon,  you'd  make  a  success  of  being  my  wife." 

"I  think  I  would,"  said  Eleanore.  "It  must  be  so  quiet 
up  there  in  the  moon." 


CHAPTEE   XI 

"COME  over  here  at  once."  My  father's  voice  over  the 
telephone,  one  morning  a  few  days  later,  sounded  thick 
and  unnatural. 

"What  about  ?"  I  asked. 

"Your  sister." 

When  I  reached  the  house  in  Brooklyn  he  came  him 
self  to  let  me  in  and  took  me  into  the  library.  I  was 
shocked  by  his  face,  it  was  terribly  worn,  quite  plainly 
he  had  been  up  all  night.  As  he  began  speaking  his  voice 
shook  and  he  leaned  forward,  every  inch  of  him  tense. 

Sue  had  told  him  the  night  before  that  she  was  going 
to  marry  Joe  Kramer.  In  reply  to  his  anxious  ques 
tions  she  had  given  him  some  of  the  facts  about  what 
Joe  was  doing.  And  Dad  had  stormed  at  her  half  the 
night. 

"She  wants  to  marry  him,  Billy,"  he  cried.  "She's 
got  her  mind  set  on  a  man  like  that!  What  has  he  got 
to  support  her  with  ?  ]STot  a  cent,  not  even  a,  decent  job ! 
He's  not  writing  now.  Do  you  know  what  he's  doing? 
Stirring  up  strikes — of  the  ugliest  kind — of  the  most 
ignorant  class  of  men — foreigners!  I  know  such  strikes 
• — I've  fought  'em  myself  and  I  know  how  they're  han 
dled!  That  young  man  will  land  in  jail!  And  it's 
where  he  belongs!  Do  you  know  what  he's  up  to  right 
here  on  the  docks?" 

"Yes,  I  know " 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  Why  did  you  let  him  come 
to  the  house?" 

"I  was  doing  my  best  to  stop  it,  Dad." 

"You  were,  eh — well,  you'll  stop  it  now!    Understand 

293 


294  THE   HARBOR 

me,  Billy,  he's  your  friend — you  brought  him  here — way 
back  at  the  start.  You've  got  to  put  a  stop  to  this 

"But  how  ?"  I  asked,  trying  to  steady  my  voice.  "What 
do  you  think  that  I  Cun  do  ?" 

"You  can  talk  to  her,  can't  you?  God  Almighty! 
Make  her  see  this  will  ruin  her  life !" 

"I  can't  do  that." 

"Can't  you  ?"  Hb  rose  and  bent  over  me  gripping  my 
arms,  and  I  felt  his  violent  trembling.  "If  you  don't, 
it's  the  end  of  me,"  he  said. 

"Steady,  Dad — now  steady — this  is  coming  out  all 

right,  you  know "  I  got  him  back  into  his  chair. 

"I'm  going  to  do  all  I  possibly  can.  I'm  going  to  see  Joe 
Kramer  now — he's  the  only  one  who  can  influence  her. 
I'm  going  to  get  him  to  come  to  Sue  and  help  me  make 
her  feel  what's  ahead — the  hardest,  ugliest  parts  of  his 
life.  ISTow  promise  you'll  keep  out  of  it,  promise  you'll 
leave  her  alone  while  I'm  gone." 

He  agreed  to  this  at  last  and  I  left  him.  But  as  I  went 
into  the  hall  Sue  came  to  me  from  the  other  room.  Her 
face  was  white  and  strained. 

"Well,  Billy?"  she  said.  My  throat  tightened.  She 
looked  so  pitifully  worn. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sue " 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me?"  she  cut  in  with 
a  quick  catch  of  her  breath. 

"ISTo,  no."  I  took  her  in  my  arms.  "Dear  old  Sue — 
don't  you  know  how  I  feel  ?  I  want  to  see  you  happy. 
I'm  trying  to  see  what  on  earth  we  can  do." 

"Why  can't  you  all  leave  me  alone?"  she  demanded, 
in  low  broken  tones.  "That's  all  I  want — I'm  old  enough ! 
I  love  him !  Isn't  that  enough  ?  To  be  treated  like  this 
— like  a  bad  little  child !  If  you'd  been  here  and  heard 
him — Dad,  I  mean — I  tell  you  he's  half  out  of  his  mind ! 
I'm  afraid  to  be  left  alone  with  him!" 

"Sue?"  It  was  our  father's  voice.  He  had  come  out 
close  behind  us. 


THE    HARBOR  295 

"Leave  me  alone!"  Sue  started  back,  but  he  caught 
her  arm: 

"You'll  stay  right  here  with  me  till  he  comes." 

"Till  who  comes?" 

"Kramer." 

"Who  said  he  was  coming?" 

"Your  brother." 

"Billy!" 

"Now,  Sis,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  Joe  and  try  to  persuade 
him  to  see  you  and  me  together,  that's  all — quietly — 
over  in  our  apartment." 

"No,"  said  our  father.     "He'll  see  her  right  here!" 

"Now,  Dad " 

"Careful,  son,  don't  get  in  my  way.  I'm  standing  about 
as  much  as  I  can.  Kramer  is  to  come  right  here.  If 
there's  any  seeing  Sue  to  be  done  it's  to  be  in  her  home, 
where  she  belongs.  I  won't  let  her  out  of  it — not  for 
an  hour  out  of  my  sight!" 

"You'll  lock  me  in  here?"  she  panted.  He  turned  on 
her. 

"You  can  call  the  police  if  you  want  to."  He  let  go 
his  hold  and  turned  to  me.  "I'm  thinking  of  her  mother. 
If  she  sees  this  man  at  all  again  I'll  see  him  too." 

"Can't  you  leave  us  ?"  I  implored  her.  "Sue — please ! 
Go  up  to  your  room!" 

When  she'd  gone  I  tried  to  quiet  him.  And  now  that 
Sue  was  out  of  the  way  I  partly  succeeded.  But  he  stuck 
to  his  purpose.  Joe  must  come  and  see  Sue  here. 

"I  want  to  be  on  hand  when  she  sees  him,"  he  insisted. 
"I  don't  want  to  talk — I've  done  all  that — I  won't  say 
a  word — but  I  want  to  be  here.  You  think  you  know 
her  better  than  I  do  because  you're  younger — bu't  you 
don't.  We've  lived  right  here  together — she's  been  my 
chum  for  twenty-five  years,  and  I  know  things  about  her 
you  don't  know.  She's  wilful,  she's  as  wild  as  a  hawk — 
but  she  can't  hold  out,  she  hasn't  it  in  her." 

"She  will  if  you  act  as  you  did  just  now " 


296  THE   HARBOR 

"But  I  won't,"  he  said  sharply.  "That  was  a  mistake 
— and  I  won't  let  it  happen  again.  When  he  comes  you 
do  the  talking,  boy — and  if  we're  beaten  I  won't  try  to 
keep  her,  she  goes  and  it's  ended,  I  promise  you  that. 
But,  son,  don't  make  any  mistake  about  this — I  have  an 
influence  over  this  girl  that  you  haven't  got  and  nobody 
has.  I  want  her  to  feel  me  beside  her." 

He  went  over  this  again  and  again,  and  with  this  I 
had  to  leave  him. 

I  found  Joe  in  his  office.  He  rose  abruptly  when  I 
came  in,  and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Let's  go  out  for  a  walk,"  he  said.  Down  in  tlie  street 
he  turned  on  me:  "Sue  has  just  'phoned  me  you  were 
there.  She  thought  you  were  going  to  help  her,  Bill, 
she  thought  that  you'd  stand  by  her.  She  didn't  get  any 
sleep  last  night — she's  been  through  hell  with  that  father 
of  hers " 

"Oh,  I've  been  all  through  Sue's  sufferings,  Joe.  Don't 
give  me  any  more  of  that." 

"You  ir can  you  think  she's  faking?" 

"No.  But  to  be  good  and  brutally  frank  about  it, 
what  she  suffers  just  now  doesn't  count  with  me.  It's 
what  her  whole  life  may  be  with  you." 

"That's  not  exactly  your  business,  is  it?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  if  I  didn't  know  Sue." 

"What  do  you  know?" 

"I  know  that  in  spite  of  all  her  talk  and  the  way  she 
acts  and  honestly  feels  whenever  she's  with  you,"  I  re 
plied,  "Sue  wants  to  hang  on  to  her  home  and  us.  She 
isn't  the  heroic  kind.  She  can't  just  follow  along  with 
you  and  leave  all  this  she's  used  to." 

Joe's  face  clouded  a  little. 

"She'll  get  over  that,"  he  muttered. 

"Perhaps  she  will  and  perhaps  she  won't.  How  do 
you  know?  You  want  to  know,  don't  you?  You  want 
her  to  be  happy  ?" 


THE   HARBOR  297 

"No,  that's  not  what  I  want  most.  Being  happy  isn't 
the  only  thing " 

"Then  tell  her  so.  That's  all  I  ask.  I'll  tell  you  what 
I've  come  for,  Joe.  You've  always  been  more  honest, 
more  painfully  blunt  and  open  than  any  man  I've  ever 
known.  Be  that  way  now  with  Sue.  Give  her  the  plain 
est,  hardest  picture  you  can  of  the  life  you're  getting 
her  into." 

"I've  tried  to  do  that  already." 

"You  haven't!  If  you  want  to  know  what  you've 
done  I  can  tell  you.  You've  painted  up  this  life  of 
yours — and  all  these  things  you  believe  in — with  power 
enough  and  smash  enough  to  knock  holes  through  all  I 
believe  in  myself.  And  I'm  stronger  than  Sue — you've 
done  more  to  her.  What  I  ask  of  you  now  is  to  drop 
all  the  fire  and  punch  of  your  dreams,  and  line  out  the 
cold  facts  of  your  life  on  its  personal  side — what  it's 
going  to  be.  I'll  help  draw  it  out  by  asking  you  ques 
tions." 

"What's  the  use  of  that?  I  know  it  won't  change 
her!" 

"Maybe  it  won't.  But  if  it  won't,  at  least  it'll  make 
my  father  give  up.  Can't  you  see?  If  you  and  I  to 
gether — I  asking  and  you  answering — paint  your  life 
the  way  it's  to  be,  and  she  says,  'Good,  that's  what  I 
want' — he'll  feel  she's  so  far  away  from  him  then  that 
he'll  throw  up  his  hands  and  let  her  go.  He  can  rest 
then,  we  can  help  him  then — Eleanore  and  I  can — it  may 
save  the  last  years  of  his  life.  And  Sue  will  be  free  to 
come  to  you." 

"You  mean  the  more  ugly  we  mako  it  the  better." 

"Just  that.     Let's  end  this  one  way  or  the  other." 

"All  right.     I  agree  to  that." 

When  Joe  and  I  came  into  the  library  my  father  rose 
slowly  from  his  chair  and  the  two  stood  looking  at  one 
another.  And  by  some  curious  mental  process  two 


298  THE    HARBOR 

memories  flashed  into  my  mind.  One  was  of  the  towering 
sails  that  my  father  had  told  me  he  had  seen  on  his  first 
day  on  the  harbor,  when  coming  here  a  crude  boy  from 
the  inland  he  had  thrilled  to  the  vision  of  owning  such 
ships  with  crews  to  whom  his  word  should  be  law,  and 
of  sending  them  over  the  ocean  world.  Such  was  the 
age  he  had  lived  in.  The  other  was  of  the  stokers  down 
in  the  bottom  of  the  ship,  and  Joe's  tired  frowning  face 
as  he  said,  "Yes,  they  look  like  a  lot  of  bums — and 
they  feed  all  the  fires  at  sea."  What  was  there  in 
common  between  these  two  ?  To  each  age  a  harbor  of  its 
own. 

"Well,  young  man,  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"Nothing." 

Sue  came  into  the  room.  Briefly  I  explained  to  her 
what  our  father  had  agreed  upon,  that  she  was  to  do  the 
deciding  and  that  he  would  abide  by  her  decision.  Then 
I  began  my  questions  to  Joe.  I  felt  awkward,  painfully 
the  intruder  into  two  other  people's  lives.  And  I  felt 
as  though  I  were  operating  upon  the  silent  old  man  close 
by.  "The  uglier  the  better,"  I  kept  repeating  to  myself. 

"Let's  take  up  first  the  money  side,  Joe.  Have  you 
any  regular  salary?" 

"No." 

"Such  as  it  is,  where  does  it  come  from?" 

"Out  of  the  stokers." 

"How  much  do  you  get  ?" 

"One  week  twenty  dollars  and  another  ten  or  five," 
he  said.  "One  week  I  got  three  dollars  and  eighty-seven 
cents." 

"Is  that  likely  to  grow  steadier  ?" 

"Possibly — more  likely  worse." 

"But  can  two  of  you  live  on  pay  like  that — say  an 
average  of  ten  dollars  a  week?" 

"I  know  several  millions  of  people  that  have  to.  And 
most  of  them  have  children  too." 

"And  you'd  expect  to  live  like  that  ?" 


THE    HARBOR  299 

"No  better,"  was  his  answer.  My  father  turned  to 
him  slowly  as  though  he  had  not  heard  just  right. 

"But  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  I  went  on,  "you  wouldn't 
have  to,  would  you  ?  You'd  expect  Sue  to  earn  money  as 
well  as  yourself." 

"I  hope  so — if  she  wants  to — it's  my  idea  of  a  woman's 
life." 

"And  the  work  you  hope  she'll  enter  will  be  the  kind 
you  believe  in — organizing  labor  and  taking  an  active 
part  in  strikes?" 

"Yes.     She's  a  good  speaker " 

"I  see.  And  if  you  were  out  of  a  job  at  times  you'd 
be  willing  to  let  her  support  you  ?" 

Sue  angrily  half  rose  from  her  chair,  but  Joe  with  a 
grim  move  of  his  hand  said  softly,  "Sit  down  and  try 
to  stand  this.  Let's  get  it  over  and  done  with."  Then 
he  turned  quietly  back  to  me. 

"Why  yes — I'd  let  her  support  me,"  he  said. 

"You  mean  you  don't  care  one  way  or  the  other.  You'd 
both  be  working  for  what  you  believe  in,  and  how  you 
lived  wouldn't  especially  count  ?" 

"That's  about  it." 

"What  do  you  believe  in,  Joe?  Just  briefly,  what's 
your  main  idea  in  stirring  up  millions  of  ignorant 
men  ?" 

"Mainly  to  pull  down  what's  on  top." 

"As  for  instance?" 

"All  of  it.  Business,  industry  and  finance  as  it's  being 
run  at  present." 

"A  clean  sweep.     And  in  place  of  that  ?" 

"Everything  run  by  the  workers  themselves." 

"For  example  ?"  I  asked.    "The  ships  by  the  stokers  ?" 

"Yes,  the  ships  by  the  stokers,"  he  said.  And  I  felt 
Dad  stiffen  in  his  chair.  "As  they  will  be  when  the  time 
comes,"  Joe  added. 

"How  soon  will  that  be?" 

"I'll  see  it,"  he  said. 


300  THE   HARBOR 

"The  working  people  in  full  control.  No  restraints 
whatever  from  above." 

"There  won't  be  anyone  left  above.  No  more  gods," 
he  answered. 

"Not  even  one  ?" 

"Is  there  one?"  he  asked. 

"You're  an  atheist,  aren't  you,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  when  I  happen  to  think  of  it." 

"And  Sue  would  likely  be  the  same." 

"Isn't  she  now?"  he  inquired.  I  dropped  the  point 
and  hurried  on. 

"How  about  Sue's  friends,  Joe?  In  a  life  like  that 
— always  in  strikes — she'd  have  to  give  them  up,  wouldn't 
she?" 

"Probably.  Some  of  'em  think  they're  radicals,  but 
I  doubt  if  they'd  come  far  out  of  the  parlor." 

"So  her  new  friends  would  be  either  strikers  or  the 
people  who  lead  in  strikes.  Her  life  would  be  practically 
sunk  in  the  mass." 

"I  hope  so." 

"You  may  be  in  jail  at  times." 

"Quite   probably." 

"Sue  too?" 

"Possibly." 

I  caught  the  look  in  my  father's  face  and  knew  that  I 
had  but  a  few  moments  more. 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  her,  Joe  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I'll  go  down  to  City  Hall — if  a  large  fat  Tam 
many  alderman  can  make  our  love  any  cleaner." 

"You  mean  you  don't  believe  in  marriage." 

"Not  especially,"  he  said. 

"And  so  if  either  gets  sick  of  the  other  he  just  leaves 
without  any  fuss." 

"Naturally." 

There  was  a  pause.    And  then  Joe  spoke  again. 

"You're  a  better  interviewer  than  I  thought  you  were," 
he  said.  "You've  made  the  picture  quite  complete — as 


THE   HARBOR  301 

far  as  you  can  see  it.  Of  course  you've  left  all  the  real 
stuff  out 

"What  is  the  real  stuff,  as  you  call  it,  young  man?" 
My  father's  voice  had  a  deadly  ring.  Joe  turned  and 
looked  at  him  as  before. 

"You  couldn't  understand,"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  understand  enough."  Dad  rose  abruptly 
and  turned  to  Sue.  "Sue,"  he  said.  "Shall  I  ask  your 
anarchist  friend  to  go?" 

I  could  feel  Sue  gather  herself.     She  was  white. 

"I'll  have  to  go  with  him,"  she  managed  to  say.  A 
slight  spasm  shot  over  our  father's  face.  For  a  moment 
there  was  silence. 

"You've  heard  all  he  said  of  this  life  of  his  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  he  wants  and  expects  you  to  do?" 

"I  heard  it." 

"And  just  how  he  wants  you  to  live — with  nothing 
you've  been  used  to — nothing?  No  money  but  what  a 
few  drunken  stokers  throw  your  way,  no  decent  ideals, 
no  religion,  no  home  ?" 

Again  a  pause. 

"I  want  to  go  with  him,"  she  brought  out  at  last. 

Dad  turned  sharply  and  left  the  room. 

I  heard  a  deep  breath  behind  me.  It  came  from  Joe 
Kramer,  whose  face  was  set  in  a  frown  of  pain. 

"He's  so  damn  old,"  Joe  muttered.  "You  operated  on 
him  hard." 

Suddenly  Sue  threw  herself  on  the  lounge.  She  hud 
dled  there  shaking  and  motioned  us  off. 

"Leave  me  alone,  can't  you,  go  away!"  we  heard  be 
tween  her  sobs.  "It's  all  right — I'm  ready — I'll  come  to 
you,  Joe — but  not  now — not  just  now!  Go  away,  both 
of  you — leave  me  alone!" 

Joe  left  the  house.  Soon  after  that  Eleanore  arrived 
and  I  told  her  what  had  happened.  She  went  in  to  Suer 


302  THE    HARBOR 

I  left  them  together  and  went  up  to  my  father's  room. 
Hfe  lay  on  the  bed  breathing  quickly. 

"You  did  splendidly,  son,"  he  said.  "You  slashed  into 
her  hard.  It  hurt  me  to  listen — but  it's  all  right.  Let 
her  suffer — she  had  to.  It  hit  her,  I  tell  you — she'll 
break  down !  If  we  can  only  keep  her  here !  Get  Elea- 
nore !" 

He  stopped  with  a  jerk,  his  hand  went  to  his  heart, 
and  he  panted  and  scowled  with  pain. 

"I  sent  for  her,"  I  told  him.  "She's  come  and  she'? 
in  Sue's  room  now.  Let's  leave  them  alone.  It's  going 
to  be  all  right,  Dad." 

I  sent  for  a  doctor  who  was  an  old  friend  of  my  father's. 
He  came  and  spent  a  long  time  in  the  room,  and  I  could 
hear  them  talking.  At  last  he  came  out. 

"It  won't  do,"  he  said.  "We  can't  have  any  more  of 
this.  We  must  keep  your  sister  out  of  his  sight.  She 
can't  stay  alone  with  him  in  this  house,  and  she  can't 
go  now  to  your  anarchist  friend.  If  she  does  it  may  be 
the  end  of  your  father.  Suppose  you  persuade  her  to 
come  to  you." 

But  here  Eleanore  joined  us. 

"I  have  a  better  plan,"  she  said.  "I've  been  talking 
to  Sue  and  she  has  agreed.  She's  to  stay — and  we'll  move 
over  here  and  try  to  keep  Sue  and  her  father  apart." 

"What  about  Joe  1"  I  asked  her. 

"Sue  has  promised  me  not  to  see  Joe  until  the  strike 
is  over.  It  will  only  be  a  matter  of  weeks — perhaps  even 
days — it  may  break  out  to-morrow.  It's  not  much  of  a 
time  for  Joe  to  get  married — besides,  it's  the  least  she 
can  do  for  her  father — to  wait  that  long.  And  she  has 
agreed.  So  that  much  is  settled." 

She  went  home  to  pack  up  a  few  things  for  the  night. 
When  she  came  back  it  was  evening.  She  spent  some 
time  with  Sue  in  her  room,  while  I  stayed  in  with  father. 
I  gave  him  a  powder  the  doctor  had  left  and  he  was  soon 
sleeping  heavily. 


THE   HARBOR  303 

'At  last  in  my  old  bedroom  Eleanore  and  I  were  alone. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  we  could  sleep. 

"Funny,"  said  Eleanore  presently,  "how  thoroughly 
selfish  people  can  be.  Here's  Sue  and  your  father  going 
through  a  perfectly  ghastly  crisis.  But  I  haven't  been 
thinking  of  them — not  at  all.  I've  been  thinking  of  us 
— of  you,  I  mean — of  what  this  strike  will  do  to  you. 
You're  getting  so  terribly  tense  these  days." 

I  reached  over  and  took  her  hand: 

"You  don't  want  me  to  run  away  from  it  now?" 

"No,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  don't  want  that.  I've  told 
you  that  I'm  not  afraid " 

"Then  we'll  have  to  wait  and  see,  won't  we,  dear  ?  We 
can't  help  ourselves  now.  I've  get  to  keep  on  writing, 
you  know — we  depend  on  that  for  our  living.  And  I 
can't  write  what  I  did  before — I  don't  seem  to  have  it 
in  me.  So  I'm  going  into  this  strike  as  hard  as  I  can 
— I'm  going  to  watch  it  as  hard  as  I  can  and  think  it  out 
as  clearly.  I  know  I'll  never  be  like  Joe — but  I  do  feel 
now  I'm  going  to  change.  I've  got  to — after  what  I've 
been  shown.  The  harbor  is  so  different  now.  Don't  you 
understand  ?" 

I  felt  her  hand  slowly  tighten  on  mine. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  understand " 


CHAPTEE   XII 

THE  events  of  that  day  dropped  out  of  my  mind  in 
the  turbulent  weeks  that  followed.  For  day  by  day  I 
felt  myself  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  crowd,  into 
surging  multitudes  of  men — till  something  that  I  found 
down  there  lifted  me  up  and  swept  me  on — into  a  strange 
new  harbor. 

Of  the  strike  I  can  give  only  one  man's  view,  what  I 
could  see  with  my  one  pair  of  eyes  in  that  swiftly  spread 
ing  confusion  that  soon  embraced  the  whole  port  of  New 
York  and  other  ports  both  here  and  abroad.  War  cor 
respondents,  I  suppose,  must  feel  the  came  chaos  around 
them,  but  in  my  case  it  rose  from  within  me  as  well.  I 
was  like  a  war  correspondent  who  is  trying  to  make  up 
his  mind  about  war.  What  was  good  in  this  labor  rebel 
lion  ?  \7hat  was  bad  ?  Where  was  it  taking  me  ? 

From  the  beginning  I  could  feel  that  it  meant  for  me 
a  breaking  of  ties  with  the  safe  strong  world  that  had 
been  my  life.  I  felt  this  first  before  the  strike,  when 
I  went  to  my  magazine  editor.  He  had  taken  my  story 
about  Jim  Marsh,  but  when  I  came  to  him  now  and 
told  him  that  I  wanted  to  cover  the  strike, 

"Go  ahead  if  you  like,"  he  answered,  a  weary  indul 
gence  in  his  tone,  "I  don't  want  to  interfere  in  your  work. 
But  I  can't  promise  you  now  that  we'll  buy  it.  If  you 
feel  you  must  write  up  this  strike  you'll  have  to  do  it  at 
your  own  risk." 

"Why?"  I  asked.  For  years  my  work  had  been  or 
dered  ahead.  I  thought  of  that  small  apartment  of  ours, 
of  my  father  sick  at  home — and  I  felt  myself  suddenly 
insecure. 

304 


THE   HARBOR  305 

"Because,"  he  answered  coolly,  "I'm  not  quite  sure 
that  what  you  write  will  be  a  fair  unbiassed  presenta 
tion  of  the  facts.  I've  seen  so  many  good  reporters  ut 
terly  spoiled  in  strikes  like  this.  They  lose  their  whole 
sense  of  proportion  and  never  seem  to  get  it  quite  back." 

This  little  talk  left  me  deeply  disturbed.  But  I  was 
unwilling  to  give  up  my  plan,  and  so,  after  some  anxious 
thinking,  I  decided  to  free-lance  it.  After  all,  if  this 
one  story  didn't  sell  I  could  borrow  until  I  wrote  some 
thing  that  did.  And  I  set  to  work  with  an  angry  vim. 
The  very  thought  that  my  old  world  was  closing  up  be 
hind  me  made  my  mind  the  more  ready  now  for  the  new 
world  opening  ahead. 

From  the  old  house  in  Brooklyn  I  once  more  ex 
plored  my  harbor.  All  day  and  the  greater  part  of  each 
night  I  went  back  over  my  old  ground.  Old  memories 
rose  in  sharp  contrast  to  new  views  I  was  getting.  From 
the  top  I  had  come  to  the  bottom.  Crowds  of  sweating 
laborers  rose  everywhere  between  me  and  my  past.  And 
as  between  me  and  my  past,  and  between  these  masses  and 
their  rulers,  I  felt  the  struggle  drawing  near,  the  whole 
immense  region  took  on  for  me  the  aspect  of  a  battle 
field,  with  puffs  and  clouds  and  darting  lines  of  smoke 
and  steam  from  its  ships  and  trains  and  factories. 
Through  it  I  moved  confusedly,  troubled  and  absorbed. 

I  saw  the  work  of  the  harbor  go  now  with  an  even 
mightier  rush,  because  of  the  impending  strike.  The 
rumor  of  its  coming  had  spread  far  over  the  country, 
and  shippers  were  hurrying  cargoes  in.  I  saw  boxes 
and  barrels  by  thousands  marked  "Rush."  And  they  were 
rushed!  On  one  dock  I  saw  the  dockers  begin  at  seven 
in  the  morning  and  when  I  came  back  late  in  the  evening 
the  same  men  were  there.  At  midnight  I  went  home  to 
sleep.  When  I  came  back  at  daybreak  the  same  men 
were  there,  and  I  watched  them  straining  through  the 
last  rush  until  the  ship  sailed  that  day  at  noon.  They 
had  worked  for  twenty-nine  hours.  In  that  last  hour  I 


306  THE    HARBOR 

drew  close — so  close  that  I  could  feel  them  heaving,  sweat 
ing,  panting,  feel  their  laboring  hearts  and  lungs.  Long 
ago  I  had  watched  them  thus,  but  then  I  had  seen  from 
a  different  world.  I  had  felt  the  pulse  of  a  nation  beat 
ing  and  I  had  gloried  in  its  speed.  But  now  I  felt  the 
pulse-beats  of  exhausted  straining  men,  I  saw  that  un 
dertaker's  sign  staring  fixedly  from  across  the  way.  "Cer 
tainly  I'm  talking  to  you !"  Six  thousand  killed  and  in 
jured  ! 

I  saw  accidents  that  week.  I  saw  a  Polish  docker 
knocked  on  the  head  by  the  end  of  a  heavy  chain  that 
broke.  I  saw  a  little  Italian  caught  by  the  foot  in  a  rope 
net,  swung  yelling  with  terror  into  the  air,  then  dropped 
— his  leg  was  broken.  And  toward  the  end  of  a  long 
night's  work  I  saw  a  tired  man  slip  and  fall  with  a  huge 
bag  on  his  shoulders.  The  bag  came  down  on  top  of 
him,  and  he  lay  there  white  and  still.  Later  I  learned 
that  his  spine  had  been  broken,  that  he  would  be  para 
lyzed  for  life. 

But  what  I  saw  was  only  a  part.  From  the  police 
men's  books  alone  I  found  a  record  for  that  week  of  six 
dockers  killed  and  eighty-seven  injured.  I  traced  about 
a  score  of  these  cases  back  into  their  tenement  homes,  and 
there  I  found  haggard,  crippled  men  and  silent,  anxious 
women,  the  mothers  of  small  children.  Curious  and 
deeply  thrilled,  these  children  looked  at  the  man  on  the 
bed,  between  his  groans  of  pain  I  heard  their  eager  ques 
tions,  they  kept  getting  in  their  mother's  way.  One  thin 
j  Italian  mother,  whose  nerves  were  plainly  all  on  edgOj, 
suddenly  slapped  the  child  at  her  skirts,  and  then  when 
it  began  to  cry  she  herself  burst  into  tears. 

These  tragic  people  gripped  me  hard.  The  stokers 
down  in  their  foul  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  ship  had  only 
disturbed  and  repelled  me.  But  these  crippled  dockers 
in  their  homes,  with  their  women  and  their  children, 
their  shattered  lives,  their  agony,  starvation  looming  up 
ahead — they  brought  a  tightening  at  my  throat — nor  was 


THE   HARBOR  307 

it  all  of  pity.  For  these  labor  victims  were  not  dumb,  I 
heard  the  word  "strike !"  spoken  bitterly  here,  and  now 
I  felt  that  they  had  a  right  to  this  bitter  passion  of  re 
volt. 

But  still  I  felt  their  way  was  wrong.  How  could  any 
real  good,  any  sure  intelligent  remedies  for  all  this  fear- 
•  f ul  misery,  come  out  of  the  minds  of  such  people  as  these, 
who  were  rushing  so  blindly  into  revolt  ?  I  went  into 
saloons  full  of  dockers  and  stokers,  and  out  of  the  low 
harsh  hubbub  there  the  word  "strike!"  came  repeatedly 
to  my  ears,  recklessly  from  drunken  tongues.  Wherever 
I  went  I  heard  that  word.  I  heard  it  spoken  in  many 
languages,  in  many  tones.  Anxious  old  women  said 
"strike!"  with  fear.  Little  street  urchins  shouted  it 
joyously.  Even  the  greenest  foreigner  understood  its 
meaning.  A  little  Greek,  who  had  broken  his  arm  and 
was  one  of  the  cases  I  traced  home,  understood  none  of 
my  questions.  "You  speak  no  English?"  He  shook  his 
head.  "Strike !"  I  ventured.  Up  he  leaped.  "Yo'  bet !" 
he  cried  emphatically. 

What  was  it  deep  within  me  that  leaped  up  then  as 
though  to  meet  that  burning  passion  in  his  eyes  ? 

"Keep  your  head,"  I  warned  myself.  "To  change  all 
this  means  years  of  work — thinking  of  the  clearest  kind. 
And  what  clear  thinking  can  these  men  do?  The  ships 
have  got  them  down  so  low  they've  no  minds  left  to  get 
out  of  their  holes!" 

And  yet — as  now  on  every  dock,  that  "strike  feeling" 
in  the  air  kept  growing  tenser,  tenser — its  tensity  crept 
into  me.  What  was  it  that  lay  just  ahead?  I  felt  like 
a  man  starting  out  on  a  journey — a  journey  from  which 
when  he  comes  back  he  will  find  nothing  quite  the  same. 

I  had  a  talk  about  the  strike  one  day  with  Eleanore's 
father.  I  can  still  see  the  affectionate  smile  on  his  face, 
he  looked  as  though  he  were  seeing  me  off. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  in  his  kind  quiet  voice,  "don't 
forget  for  even  a  minute  that  the  men  who  stand  behind 


308  THE   HARBOR 

my  work  are  going  to  stamp  out  this  strike.  This  modern 
world  is  too  complex  to  allow  brute  force  and  violence 
to  wreck  all  that  civilization  has  done.  I'm  sorry  you've 
gone  into  this — but  so  long  as  you  have,  as  Eleanore's 
father,  I  want  you  now  to  promise  you  won't  write  a  line 
until  the  strike  is  over  and  you  have  had  plenty  of  time 
to  get  clear.  Don't  let  yourself  get  swamped  in  this — 
remember  that  you  have  a  wife  and  a  small  son  to  think 
of." 

My  father  had  put  it  more  sharply.  He  was  out  of 
bed  now  and  he  seemed  to  take  strength  from  the  news 
reports  that  he  eagerly  read  of  the  struggle  so  fast  ap 
proaching. 

"At  sea,"  he  said,  "when  stokers  try  to  quit  their  jobs 
and  force  their  way  on  deck,  they're  either  put  in  irons 
or  shot  down  as  mutineers.  You'll  see  your  friend  Kramer 
dead  or  in  jail.  No  danger  to  your  sister  now.  Only  see 
that  you  keep  out  of  it!" 

I  did  not  tell  him  of  my  work,  for  I  knew  it  would 
only  excite  him  again,  and  excitement  would  be  danger 
ous. 

"Now  you  and  Eleanore  must  go  home,"  said  Sue  that 
night.  "You'll  have  enough  to  think  of.  I'll  be  all  right 
with  father — he  knows  there's  nothing  to  do  but  wait, 
and  he's  so  kind  to  me  now  that  it  hurts.  Poor  old 
Dad — how  well  he  means.  But  he's  the  old  and  we're 
the  new — and  that's  the  whole  trouble  between  us."  A 
sudden  light  came  in  her  eyes.  "The  new  are  bound  to 
win!"  she  said. 

But  I  was  not  so  sure  of  the  new.  To  me  it  was  still 
very  vague  and  chaotic.  After  we  had  moved  back  to 
New  York,  at  the  times  when  I  came  home  to  sleep,  Elea 
nore  was  silent  or  quietly  casual  in  her  remarks,  but  I 
felt  her  always  watching  me.  One  night  when  I  came 
in  very  late  and  thought  her  asleep,  being  too  tired  to 
sleep  myself,  I  went  to  our  bedroom  window  and  stood 
looking  off  down  into  the  distant  expanse  of  the  harbor. 


THE   HAKBOR  309 

How  quiet  and  cool  it  seemed  down  there.  But  presently 
out  of  the  darkness  behind,  Eleanore's  arm  came  around 
me. 

"I  wonder  whether  the  harbor  will  ever  let  us  alone," 
she  said.  "It  was  so  good  to  us  at  first — we  were  getting 
on  so  splendidly.  But  it's  taking  hold  of  us  now  again — 
as  though  we  had  wandered  too  far  away  and  were  living 
too  smoothly  and  needed  a  jolt.  Never  mind,  we're  not 
afraid.  Only  let's  be  very  sure  we  know  what  we  are 
doing." 

"We'll  be  very  sure,"  I  whispered,  and  I  held  her  very 
close. 

"Let's  try  to  be  sure  together,"  she  said.  "Don't 
leave  me  out — I  want  to  be  in.  I  want  to  see  as  much  as 
I  can — and  help  in  any  way  I  can.  If  you  make  any 
friends  I  want  to  know  them.  Remember  that  whatever 
comes,  thy  people  shall  be  mine,  my  dear." 

The  next  day  the  strike  began. 

Out  of  the  docks  at  nine  in  the  morning  I  saw  dock 
ers  pour  in  crowds.  They  moved  on  to  other  docks, 
merged  themselves  in  other  crowds,  scattered  here  and 
gathered  there,  until  at  last  a  black  tide  of  men,  here 
straggling  wide,  here  densely  massed,  moved  slowly  along 
the  waterfront. 

In  and  out  of  these  surging  throngs  I  moved,  so  close 
that  in  the  quiver  of  muscles,  the  excited  movements  of 
big  limbs,  the  rough  eagerness  of  voices  that  spoke  in 
a  babel  of  many  tongues,  such  a  storm  of  emotions  beat 
in  upon  me  that  I  felt  I  had  suddenly  dived  into  an 
ocean  of  human  beings,  each  one  of  whom  was  as  human 
as  I.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Joe  hurrying  by.  And  I 
thought  of  Sue,  and  of  Joe's  appeal  to  her  and  to  me  to 
throw  in  our  lives  with  such  strangers  as  these  whose 
coarse  heavy  faces  were  pressing  so  close.  And  I  thought 
of  Eleanore  at  home.  "Thy  people  shall  be  mine,  my 
dear." 


310  THE    HARBOR 

Teamsters  drove  clattering  trucks  through  the  crowds. 
Some  of  them  did  not  unload,  but  others  dumped  piles 
of  freight  by  the  docks.  The  dam  had  begun.  All  day 
long  the  freight  piled  up,  and  by  evening  the  light  of  a 
pale  moon  shone  down  upon  acres  of  barrels  and  boxes. 
Then  the  teamsters  unharnessed  their  teams,  left  the 
empty  trucks  with  poles  in  air,  and  the  teamsters  and 
their  horses  and  all  the  crowds  of  strikers  scattered  by 
degrees  up  into  the  tenement  regions.  Bursts  of  laughter 
and  singing  came  now  and  then  out  of  the  saloons. 

Silence  settled  down  over  the  docks.  Walking  now 
down  the  waterfront  I  met  only  a  figure  here  and  there. 
A  taxi  came  tearing  and  screeching  by,  and  later  down 
the  long  empty  space  came  a  single  wagon  slowly.  A 
smoky  lantern  swung  under  its  wheels,  and  its  old  white 
horse  with  his  shaggy  head  down  came  plodding  wearily 
along.  He  alone  had  no  strike  feeling. 

Battered  and  worn  from  the  day's  impressions  I  wanted 
to  be  alone  and  to  think.  I  made  my  way  in  and  out 
among  trucks  and  around  a  dockshed  out  to  a  slip.  It 
was  filled  with  barges,  tugs  and  floats  jammed  in  between 
the  two  big  vessels  that  loomed  one  at  either  pier.  It  was 
a  dark  jumble  of  spars  and  masts,  derricks,  funnels  and 
cabin  roofs,  all  shadowy  and  silent.  A  single  light 
gleamed  here  and  there  from  the  long  dark  deck  of  the 
Morgan  coaster  close  to  my  right.  She  was  heavily  loaded 
still,  for  she  had  come  to  dock  too  late.  Smoke  still 
drifted  from  her  stout  funnel,  steam  puffed  now  and 
then  from  her  side.  Behind  her,  reaching  a  mile  to  the 
North,  were  ships  by  the  dozen,  coasters  and  great  ocean 
liners,  loaded  and  waiting  to  discharge  or  empty  and 
waiting  to  reload.  And  to  the  South  were  miles  of  rail 
road  sheds  already  packed  to  bursting.  I  thought  of  the 
trains  from  all  over  the  land  still  rushing  a  nation's 
produce  here,  and  of  the  starlit  ocean  roads,  of  ships 
coming  from  all  over  the  world,  the  men  in  their  fiery 
caverns  below  feeding  faster  the  fires  to  quicken  their 


THE    HARBOR  311 

speed,  all  bringing  cargoes  to  this  port.  More  barrels, 
boxes,  crates  and  bags  to  be  piled  high  up  on  the  water 
front.  For  the  workers  had  gone  away  from  their  work, 
and  the  great  white  ships  were  still. 

"What  has  all  this  to  do  with  me  ?" 

There  came  into  my  mind  the  picture  of  a  little  man 
I  had  seen  that  day,  a  suburban  commuter  by  his  looks, 
frowning  from  a  ferryboat  upon  a  cheering  crowd  of 
strikers.  I  laughed  to  myself  as  J  thought  of  him.  He 
had  seemed  so  ludicrously  small. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  I  thought,  "you  and  I  are  a  couple 
of  two-spots  here,  swallowed  up  in  the  scenery." 

I  thought  of  what  Joe  had  said  that  day :  "When  you 
see  the  crowd,  in  a  strike  like  this,  loosen  up  and  show 
all  it  could  be  if  it  had  the  chance — that  sight  is  so  big 
it  blots  you  out — you  sink — you  melt  into  the  crowd." 

Something  like  that  happened  to  me.  I  had  seen  the 
multitudes  "loosen  up,"  I  had  felt  myself  melt  into  the 
crowd.  But  I  had  not  seen  what  they  could  be  nor  did 
I  see  what  they  could  do.  Far  to  the  south,  high  over 
all  the  squalid  tenement  dwellings,  rose  that  tower  of 
lights  I  had  known  so  well,  the  airy  place  where  Elea- 
nore's  father  had  dreamed  and  planned  his  clean  vigorous 
world.  It  was  lighted  to-night  as  usual,  as  though  noth 
ing  whatever  had  happened.  I  thought  of  the  men  I 
had  seen  that  day.  How  crassly  ignorant  they  seemed. 
And  yet  in  a  few  brief  hours  they  had  paralyzed  all 
that  the  tower  had  planned,  reduced  it  all  to  silence, 
nothing.  Could  it  be  that  such  upheavals  as  these  meant 
an  end  to  the  rule  of  the  world  from  above,  by  the  keen 
minds  of  the  men  at  the  top  ?  Was  that  great  idol  which 
had  been  mine  for  so  many  glad  years,  that  last  of  my 
gods,  Efficiency,  beginning  to  rock  a  little  now  upon  its 
deep  foundations? 

What  could  these  men  ever  put  in  its  place?  I  re 
called  the  words  of  an  old  dock  watchman  with  whom  I 
had  talked  the  evening  before.  From  the  days  of  the 


312  THE   HARBOR 

Knights  of  Labor  he  had  been  through  many  strikes,  and 
all  had  failed,  he  told  me.  His  dog  sat  there  beside 
him,  a  solemn  old  red  spaniel,  looking  wistfully  into  his 
master's  face.  And  with  somewhat  the  same  expression, 
looking  out  on  the  moonlit  Hudson,  the  old  striker  had 
said  slowly: 

"Before  these  labor  leaders  will  do  half  of  what  they 
say — a  pile  of  water  will  have  to  go  by." 

A  sharp  slight  sound  behind  me  jerked  me  suddenly 
out  of  my  thoughts.  I  jumped  as  though  at  a  shot.  How 
infernally  tight  my  nerves  were  getting.  The  sound  had 
come  from  a  mere  piece  of  paper  blown  by  the  wind — a 
rough  salt  wind  which  now  blew  in  from  the  ocean  as 
though  impatient  of  all  this  stillness.  From  below  came 
a  lapping  and  slapping  of  waves.  Above  me  a  derrick 
mast  growled  and  whined  as  it  rocked.  And  now  as  I 
looked  about  me  all  those  densely  crowded  derricks  moved 
to  and  fro  against  the  sky.  I  had  never  felt  in  this  watery 
world  such  deep  restlessness  as  now. 

"I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  stop  heaving,"  I  thought  hal£ 
angrily.  "I  wonder  what  I'll  be  like  when  you  finally 
get  through  with  me.  When  will  you  ever  let  me  stand 
pat  and  get  things  settled  for  good  and  all?  When  stop 
this  endless  starting  out?" 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WHAT  could  such  men  as  these  raise  up  in  place  of  the 
mighty  life  they  had  stilled? 

At  first  only  chaos. 

As  I  went  along  the  waterfront  I  felt  a  confused  dis 
appointment.  Deep  under  all  my  questioning  there  had 
been  a  vague  subconscious  hope  that  I  would  see  a  mira 
cle  here.  I  had  looked  for  an  army.  I  saw  only  mobs 
of  angry  men.  They  were  "picketing"  the  docks,  here 
making  furious  rushes  at  men  suspected  of  being  "scabs," 
there  clustering  quickly  around  some  talker  or  some  man 
who  was  reading  a  paper,  again  drifting  up  into  the 
streets  of  teeming  foreign  quarters,  jamming  into  bar 
rooms,  voicing  wildest  rumors,  talking,  shouting,  pound 
ing  tables  with  huge  fists.  And  to  me  there  was  nothing 
inspiring  but  only  something  terrible  here,  an  appalling 
force  turned  loose,  sightless  and  unguided.  What  a  fool 
I  had  been  to  hope.  The  harbor  held  no  miracles. 

The  strike  leaders  seemed  to  have  little  control.  Head 
quarters  were  in  the  wildest  disorder.  Into  the  big  bare 
meeting  hall  and  through  the  rooms  adjoining  drifted 
multitudes  of  men.  There  were  no  inner  private  rooms 
and  Marsh  saw  everyone  who  came.  He  was  constantly 
shaking  hands  or  drawling  casual  orders,  more  like  sug 
gestions  than  commands.  I  caught  sight  of  Joe  Kramer's 
face  at  his  desk,  where  he  was  signing  and  giving  out 
union  cards  to  a  changing  throng  that  kept  pressing  around 
him.  Joe's  face  was  set  and  haggard.  He  had  been  at 
that  desk  all  night. 

"It's  hopeless.     They  can  do  nothing,"  I  thought. 

But  when  I  came  back  the  next  morning  I  felt  a  sudden 

313 


314  THE    HARBOR 

shock  of  surprise.  For  in  some  mysterious  fashion  a 
crude  order  had  appeared.  The  striker  throng  had  poured 
into  the  hall,  filled  all  the  seats  and  then  wedged  in  around 
the  walls.  They  were  silent  and  attentive  now.  On  the 
stage  sat  Marsh  and  his  fellow  leaders.  Before  them  in 
the  first  three  rows  of  seats  was  the  Central  Committee, 
a  rough  parliament  sprung  up  over  night.  Each  member, 
I  found,  had  been  elected  the  night  before  by  his  "dis 
trict  committee."  These  district  bodies  had  somehow 
formed  in  the  last  two  days  and  in  them  leaders  had 
arisen.  The  leaders  were  here  to  plan  together,  the  mass 
was  here  to  make  sure  they  planned  right.  And  watch 
ing  the  deep  rough  eagerness  on  all  those  silent  faces, 
that  vague  hope  stirred  again  in  my  breast. 

Presently  I  caught  Joe's  eye.  At  once  he  left  his 
platform  seat  and  came  to  me  in  the  rear  of  the  hall. 

"Come  on,  Bill,"  he  said.  "We  want  you  up  here." 
And  we  made  our  way  up  to  the  platform.  There  Marsh 
reached  over  and  gripped  my  hand. 

"Hello,  Bill,  glad  you're  with  us,"  he  said.  I  tingled 
slightly  at  his  tone  and  at  a  thousand  friendly  eyes  that 
met  mine  for  an  instant.  Then  it  was  over.  The  work 
went  on. 

What  they  did  at  first  seemed  haphazard  enough.  Re 
ports  from  the  districts  were  being  read  with  frequent 
interruptions,  petty  corrections  and  useless  discussions 
that  strayed  from  the  point  and  made  me  impatient.  And 
yet  wide  vistas  opened  here.  Telegrams  by  the  dozen 
were  read  from  labor  unions  all  over  the  country,  from 
groups  of  socialists  East  and  West,  there  were  cables  from 
England,  Germany,  France,  from  Russia,  Poland,  Nor 
way,  from  Italy,  Spain  and  even  Japan.  "Greetings 
to  our  comrades!"  came  pouring  in  from  all  over  the 
earth.  What  measureless  army  of  labor  was  this?  All 
at  once  the  dense  mass  in  the  rear  would  part  to  let  a 
new  body  of  men  march  through.  These  were  new  strikers 
to  swell  the  ranks,  and  at  their  coming  all  business  would 


THE    HARBOR  315 

stop,  there  would  be  wild  cheers  and  stamping  of  feet, 
shrill  whistles,  pandemonium! 

Gradually  I  began  to  feel  what  was  happening  in  this 
hall.  That  first  "strike  feeling" — diffused,  shifting  and 
uncertain — was  condensing  as  in  a  storm  cloud  here, 
swelling,  thickening,  whirling,  attracting  swiftly  to  itself 
all  these  floating  forces.  Here  was  the  first  awakening 
of  that  mass  thought  and  passion  which  swelling  later 
into  full  life  was  to  give  me  such  flashes  of  insight  into 
the  deep  buried  resources  of  the  common  herd  of  man 
kind,  their  resources  and  their  power  of  vision  when  they 
are  joined  and  fused  in  a  mass.  Here  in  a  few  hours 
the  great  spirit  of  the  crowd  was  born. 

For  now  the  crowd  began  to  question,  think  and  plan. 
Ideas  were  thrown  out  pell  mell.  I  found  that  every 
plan  of  action,  everything  felt  and  thought  and  spoken, 
though  it  might  start  from  a  single  man,  was  at  once 
transformed  by  the  feeling  of  all,  expressed  in  fragments 
of  speech,  in  applause,  or  in  loud  bursts  of  laughter,  or 
again  by  a  chilling  silence  in  which  an  unwelcome  thought 
soon  died.  The  crowd  spoke  its  will  through  many  voices, 
through  men  who  sprang  up  and  talked  hard  a  few  mo 
ments,  then  sat  down  and  were  lost  to  sight — some  to  rise 
later  again  and  again  and  grow  in  force  of  thought  and 
expression,  others  not  to  be  seen  again,  they  had  simply 
been  parts  of  the  crowd,  and  the  crowd  had  made  them 
rise  and  speak. 

On  the  first  day  of  this  labor  parliament,  up  rose  a 
stolid  Pole.  He  was  no  committeeman  but  simply  a 
member  of  the  throng. 

"Yo'  sand  a  spickair  to  my  dock,"  he  said.  "Pier 
feefty-two — East  Keever.  I  t'ink  he  make  de  boys  come 
out."  He  sat  down  breathing  heavily. 

"You  don't  need  any  speaker,  go  yourself,"  an  Irish 
man  called  from  across  the  hall. 

"I  no  spick,"  said  the  Pole  emphatically. 

"You're  spicking  now,  ain't  you  ?"     There  was  a  burst 


316  THE    HARBOR 

of  laughter,  and  the  big  man's  face  grew  red.  "You 
don't  need  to  talk,"  the  voice  went  on.  "Just  go  into  your 
dock  and  yell  'Strike !'  You've  got  chest  enough,  you  Pol 
lock." 

The  big  Pole  made  his  way  out  of  the  hall.  In  the 
rear  I  saw  him  light  his  pipe  and  puff  and  scowl  in  a  puz 
zled  way.  Then  he  disappeared.  The  next  day,  in  the 
midst  of  some  discussion,  he  rose  from  another  part  of 
the  hall. 

"I  want  to  say  I  strike  my  dock,"  he  shouted.  Nor 
body  seemed  to  hear  him,  it  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  subject,  but  he  sat  down  with  a  glow  of  pride. 

A  Norwegian  had  arisen  and  was  speaking  earnestly, 
but  his  English  was  so  wonderful  that  no  one  could  un 
derstand. 

"Shut  up,  you  big  Swede,  go  and  learn  English,"  some 
body  said. 

"He  don't  have  to  shut  up."  The  voice  of  Marsh  cut 
in,  and  the  mass  backed  up  his  curt  rebuke  by  a  mur 
mur  of  approval.  He  had  risen  and  come  forward,  and 
now  waited  till  there  was  absolute  silence.  "Everyone 
gets  a  hearing  here,"  he  said.  "We've  got  nine  nationali 
ties,  but  each  one  checks  his  race  at  the  door.  Every  man 
is  to  have  a  fair  show.  What  we  need  is  an  interpreter. 
Where's  someone  who  can  help  this  Swede?" 

There  was  a  quick  stirring  in  the  mass  and  then  a  man 
was  shoved  out  of  it.  He  went  over  to  the  speaker,  who  at 
once  began  talking  intensely. 

"The  first  thing  he  wants  to  say,"  said  the  interpreter 
at  the  end  of  the  torrent,  "is  that  he'd  rather  be  dead  than 
a  Swede.  He  says  he's  a  Norwegian.  His  second  point 
is  that  all  bad  feeling  between  nationalities  ought  to  be 
stopped  if  the  strike's  to  be  won.  He  says  he's  seen 
fights  already  between  Irish  and  Eyetalians." 

Up  leaped  an  enormous  negro  docker  who  sounded  as 
though  he  preached  often  on  Sundays. 

"Yes,  brothers,"  he  boomed,  "let  us  stop  our  fights.^ 


THE    HARBOR  317 

Let  us  desist — let  us  refrain.  We  are  men  from  all  coun 
tries,  black  and  white.  The  last  speaker  came  from  Nor 
way — he  came  from  way  up  there  in  the  North.  My 
father  came  from  Africa " 

"He  must  have  come  last  Monday,"  said  a  dry,  thin 
voice  from  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  there  was  a  laugh. 

"Brothers,"  cried  the  black  man,  "I  come  here  from 
the  colored  race.  At  my  dock  I  got  over  sixty  negroes 
to  walk  out.  Is  there  no  place  for  us  in  this  strike  ?  If 
my  father  was  a  slave,  is  my  color  so  against  me  ?" 

"It  ain't  your  color,  it's  your  scabbing,"  a  sharp  voice 
interrupted.  "They  broke  the  last  strike  with  coons  like 
you.  They  brought  you  up  in  boats  from  the  South. 
And  you  scabbed — you  scabbed  yourself!  Didn't  you? 
You  did !  You •  of  a  nigger !" 

A  little  Italian  sprang  up  in  reply.  He  did  not  look 
like  a  docker.  He  was  gaily  dressed  in  a  neat  blue  suit 
with  a  bright  red  tie: 

"Fellow  workers — I  am  Italian  man!  You  call  me 
Guinney,  Dago,  Wop — you  call  another  man  Coon,  Nig 
ger — you  call  another  man  a  Sheeny !  Stop  calling  names 
— call  men  fellow  workers !  We  are  on  strike — let  us  not 
fight  each  other — let  us  have  peace — let  us  have  a  good 
time!  I  know  a  man  who  has  a  big  boat — and  he  say 
now  we  can  have  it  for  nothing — -to  take  our  wives  and 
children  and  make  excursions  every  day.  On  the  boat  we 
will  have  a  good  time.  I  am  a  musician — I  play  the  violin 
on  a  boat  till  I  strike — so  now  I  will  get  you  the  music. 
And  we  shall  run  that  boat  ourselves !  We  have  our  own 
dockers  to  start  it  from  dock — we  have  our  own  stokers, 
our  own  engineers — we  have  our  own  pilots — we  have  all ! 
And  it  will  be  easy  to  steer  that  boat — for  we  have  made 
the  harbor  empty — we  shall  have  the  whole  place  to  our 
selves!  Some  day  maybe  soon  we  have  all  the  boats  in 
the  world  for  ourselves — and  we  shall  be  free !  All  battle 
boats  we  shall  sink  in  the  sea — we  stop  all  wars!  So 
now  we  begin — we  stop  all  our  fighting — we  take  out  this 


318  THE    HARBOR 

boat — all  our  comrades  on  board !  No  coons,  no  niggers, 
no  sheenies,  no  wops!  Fellow  workers — I  tell  you  the 
name  of  our  boat!  The  Internationale!" 

The  little  man's  speech  was  greeted  with  a  sudden  roar 
of  applause.  For  the  crowd  had  seen  at  once  this  danger 
of  race  hatred  and  was  eager  to  put  it  down.  The  Inter 
nationale  made  her  first  trip  on  the  following  day,  and 
after  that  her  daily  cruise  became  the  gala  event  of  the 
strike.  Both  decks  of  the  clumsy  craft  were  packed  with 
strikers,  their  wives  and  their  children,  and  all  up  and 
down  the  harbor  she  went.  The  little  Italian  and  his 
friends  had  had  printed  a  red  pamphlet,  "Revolutionary 
Songs  of  the  Sea,"  the  solos  of  which  he  sang  on  the 
boat  while  the  rest  came  in  on  the  chorus.  A  new  kind 
of  a  "chanty  man"  was  he,  voicing  the  wrongs  and  the 
fierce  revolt  and  the  surging  hopes  and  longings  of 
all  the  toilers  on  the  sea — while  this  ship  that  was  run 
by  the  workers  themselves  plowed  over  a  strange  new 
harbor.  I  watched  it  one  day  from  the  end  of  a  pier. 
It  approached  with  a  swelling  volume  of  song.  It  drew 
so  near  I  could  see  the  flushed  faces  of  those  who  were 
singing,  some  with  their  eyes  on  their  leader's  face,  others 
singing  out  over  the  water  as  though  they  were  spreading 
far  and  wide  the  exultant  prophecy  of  that  song.  It 
passed,  the  singing  died  away — and  still  I  sat  there  won 
dering. 

"We  shall  have  all  the  boats  in  the  world  for  our 
selves — and  we  shall  be  free !  All  battle  boats  we  shall 
sink  in  the  sea!  We  stop  all  wars!  So  now  we 
begin!" 

Was  it  indeed  a  beginning?  Was  this  the  opening 
measure  of  music  that  would  be  heard  round  the  world  ? 
My  mind  rejected  the  idea,  I  thought  it  merest  mad 
ness.  But  still  that  song  rang  in  my  ears.  What  deep 
compelling  force  was  here — this  curious  power  of  the 
crowd  that  had  so  suddenly  gripped  hold  of  this  simple 
Italian  musician,  this  fiddler  on  excursion  boats,  and  in 


THE   HARBOR  319 

a  few  short  days  and  nights  had  made  him  pour  into  music 
the  fire  of  its  worldwide  dreams  ? 

I  saw  it  seize  on  others.  One  day  a  young  girl  rose  up 
in  the  hall.  A  stenographer  on  one  of  the  docks,  she 
was  neatly,  rather  sprucely  dressed,  but  her  face  was 
white  and  scared.  She  had  never  made  a  speech  before. 
She  was  speaking  now  as  though  impelled  by  something 
she  could  not  control. 

"Comrades — fellow  workers."  Her  voice  trembled  vio 
lently.  She  paused  and  set  her  teeth,  went  on.  "How 
about  the  women  and  babies?"  she  asked.  "I  know  of 
one  who  was  born  last  night.  And  that's  only  one  of  a 
lot.  We  have  thousands  of  kids  and  old  people — sick 
people  too,  and  cripples  and  drunks — all  that  these  lovely 
jobs  of  ours  have  left  on  our  backs.  They've  got  to  be 
carried.  Who/s  to  take  care  of  'em,  feed  'em,  doctor 
'em  ?  If  we're  going  to  run  the  earth  let's  begin  at  home. 
What  does  anyone  know  about  that  ?" 

She  sat  down  with  a  kind  of  a  gasp  of  relief.  Her  seat 
was  close  to  the  platform,  and  I  could  see  her  bright 
excited  eyes  as  she  listened  to  what  she  had  started  here. 
For  the  crowd,  as  though  it  had  only  been  waiting  for 
this  girl  to  speak  its  thought,  now  seized  upon  her  ques 
tion.  Sharp  voices  were  heard  all  over  the  hall.  Some 
said  they  could  get  doctors,  others  knew  of  empty  stores 
that  could  be  had  for  nothing  and  used  as  free  food 
stations.  An  assistant  cook  from  an  ocean  liner  told 
where  his  chief  bought  wholesale  supplies.  And  the  girl 
who  had  roused  this  discussion,  her  nervousness  forgotten 
now,  rose  up  again  and  again  with  so  many  quick,  eager 
suggestions,  that  when  the  first  relief  station  was  opened 
that  evening  she  was  one  of  those  placed  in  charge. 

I  saw  her  grow  amazingly,  for  now  I  came  to  know 
her  well.  Her  name  was  Nora  Ganey.  At  home  that 
night  when  Eleanore  said,  "Remember,  dear,  I  want  some 
thing  to  do  that  will  let  me  see  the  strike  for  myself" — 
I  thought  at  once  of  this  work  of  relief.  Eleanore  would 


320  THE    HARBOR 

be  good  at  this,  she  had  trained  herself  in  just  such  work. 
'And  it  appealed  to  her  at  once.  She  went  down  with  me 
the  next  morning,  and  she  and  ISTora  Ganey,  though  their 
lives  had  been  so  different,  yet  proved  at  once  to  be  kin 
dred  souls.  Eleanore  gave  half  her  time  to  the  work, 
and  these  two  became  fast  friends. 
-  Before  the  strike  jSTora  had  sat  all  day  in  an  office 
pounding  a  typewriter,  several  nights  a  week  she  had 
gone  to  dances  in  public  halls,  and  that  had  made  her 
entire  life.  In  the  strike  she  was  at  her  food  station  all 
day,  and  each  evening  till  late  she  visited  homes,  looking 
into  appeals  for  aid  and  if  need  be  issuing  tickets  for 
food.  She  heard  the  bitterest  stories  from  wives  of  har 
bor  victims,  and  she  began  telling  these  stories  in  speeches. 
Soon  she  was  sent  out  over  the  city  to  speak  at  meet 
ings  and  ask  for  aid.  With  Eleanore  I  went  one  night 
to  hear  this  young  stenographer  speak  to  twenty  thou 
sand  in  Madison  Square  Garden.  And  the  strike  leader 
who  made  that  speech  was  not  the  girl  of  two  weeks  be 
fore.  Her  life  had  been  as  utterly  changed  as  though 
she  had  jumped  to  another  world. 

Through  Marsh  and  Joe,  in  those  tense  days,  I  was 
fast  making  striker  friends.  With  some  I  had  long  in 
timate  talks,  I  ate  many  kitchen  suppers  and  spent  many 
evenings  in  tenement  homes.  But  though  by  degrees  I 
felt  myself  drawn  to  these  men  who  called  me  "Bill," 
when  alone  with  each  one  I  felt  little  or  none  of  that 
passion  born  of  the  crowd  as  a  whole.  With  a  sharp 
drop,  a  sudden  reaction,  I  would  feel  this  new  world 
gone.  Its  strength  and  its  wide  vision  would  seem  like 
mere  illusions  now.  What  could  we  little  pigmies  do  with 
the  world?  Its  guidance  was  for  Dillon  and  all  the  big 
men  I  had  known.  Often  in  those  days  of  groping, 
knotty  problems  all  unsolved,  with  a  sickening  hunger  I 
would  think  of  those  men  at  the  top,  of  their  keen 
minds  so  thoroughly  trained,  their  vast  experience  in  af 
fairs.  I  would  feel  myself  in  a  hopeless  mob,  a  dense, 


THE   HARBOR  321 

heavy  jungle  of  ignorant  minds.  And  groping  for  a 
foothold  here  I  would  find  only  chaos. 

But  back  we  would  go  into  the  crowd,  and  there  in  a 
twinkling  we  would  be  changed.  Once  more  we  were 
members  of  the  whole  and  took  on  its  huge  personality. 
And  again  the  vision  came  to  me,  the  dream  of  a  weary 
world  set  free,  a  world  where  poverty  and  pain  and  all 
the  bitterness  they  bring  might  in  the  end  be  swept  away 
by  this  awakening  giant  here — which  day  by  day  assumed 
for  me  a  personality  of  its  own.  Slowly  I  began  to  feel 
what  It  wanted,  what  It  hated,  how  It  planned  and  how 
It  acted.  And  this  to  me  was  a  miracle,  the  one  great 
miracle  of  the  strike.  For  years  I  had  labored  to  train 
myself  to  concentrate  on  one  man  at  a  time,  to  shut  out 
all  else  for  weeks  on  end,  to  feel  this  man  so  vividly  that 
his  self  came  into  mine.  Now  with  the  same  intensity 
I  found  myself  striving  day  and  night  to  feel  not  one  but 
thousands  of  men,  a  blurred  bewildering  multitude.  And 
slowly  in  my  striving  I  felt  them  fuse  together  into  one 
great  being,  look  at  me  with  two  great  eyes,  speak  to  me 
with  one  deep  voice,  pour  into  me  with  one  tremendous 
burning  passion  for  the  freedom  of  mankind. 

Was  this  another  god  of  mine  ? 


CHAPTEK   XIV 

THE  great  voice  of  the  crowd — incessant,  demanding 
of  me  and  of  all  within  hearing  to  throw  in  our  lives, 
to  join  in  this  march  to  a  new  free  world  regardless  of 
all  risk  to  ourselves — grew  clear  to  me  now. 

I  felt  myself  drawn  in  with  the  rest.  I  was  helping 
in  the  publicity  work,  each  day  I  met  with  the  leaders 
to  draw  up  statements  for  the  press.  And  these  mes 
sages  to  the  outside  world  that  I  wrote  to  the  slow  and 
labored  dictation  of  some  burly  docker  comrade,  or  again 
by  myself  at  dawn  to  express  the  will  of  a  meeting  that 
had  lasted  half  the  night — slowly  became  for  me  my 
own.  Almost  unawares  I  had  taken  the  habit  of  asking: 

"How  much  can  we  do  ?  How  sane  and  vigilant  can 
we  be  to  keep  clear  of  violence,  bloodshed,  mobs  and  a 
return  to  chaos?  How  long  can  we  hold  together  fast? 
How  far  can  we  march  toward  this  promised  land  ?" 

In  order  to  see  ourselves  as  a  whole  and  feel  our  swiftly 
swelling  strength,  having  now  burst  the  confines  of  our 
hall,  we  began  to  hold  meetings  out  on  "the  Farm."  There 
are  many  "farms"  on  the  waterfront,  for  a  "farm"  is  sim 
ply  the  open  shore  space  in  front  of  a  dock.  But  this, 
which  was  one  of  the  widest  of  all,  now  came  to  be  spoken 
of  as  "the  Farm,"  and  took  on  an  atmosphere  all  its 
own.  For  there  were  scenes  here  which  will  long  en 
dure  in  the  memories  of  thousands  of  people.  For  them 
it  will  be  a  great  bright  spot  in  the  times  gone  by — in 
one  of  those  times  behind  the  times,  as  this  strange  world 
keeps  rushing  on. 

From  the  top  of  a  pile  of  sand,  where  I  stood  with  the 
speakers  at  the  end  of  a  soft  April  day,  I  saw  the  whole 

322 


THE    HARBOR  323 

Farm  massed  solid  with  people.  This  mass  rose  in  hum 
mocks  and  hills  of  humanity  over  the  piles  of  brick  and 
sand  and  of  cralfces  and  barrels  dumped  by  the  trucks,  and 
out  over  the  water  they  covered  the  barges  and  the  tugs, 
and  there  were  even  hundreds  upon  the  roofs  of  dock- 
sheds.  The  yelp  of  a  dog  was  heard  now  and  then  and 
the  faint  cries  of  children.  But  the  mass  as  a  whole  stood 
motionless,  without  a  sound.  They  had  stood  thus  since 
two  o'clock,  and  now  the  sun  was  setting.  To  the  west 
the  harbor  was  empty,  no  smoke  from  ships  obscured 
the  sun,  and  it  shone  with  radiant  clearness  upon  eleven 
races  of  men,  upon  Italians,  Germans,  French,  on  Eng 
lish,  Poles  and  Russians,  on  Negroes  and  Norwegians, 
Lascars,  Malays,  Coolies,  on  figures  burly,  figures  puny, 
faces  white  and  faces  swarthy,  yellow,  brown  and  black. 
The  sun  shone  upon  all  alike — except  where  that  Mor 
gan  liner,  still  lying  unloaded  at  her  dock,  threw  a  long 
dark  creeping  shadow  out  across  the  throng. 

Thirty  thousand  people  were  here.  Thirty  thousand 
intensely  alive.  As  I  eagerly  watched  their  faces  it  was 
not  their  poverty  now  but  their  boundless  fresh  vitality 
that  took  hold  of  me  so  hard.  I  had  read  many  radical 
books  of  late,  in  my  groping  for  a  foothold,  and  I  had 
found  most  of  them  dry  affairs.  But  now  the  crowd 
through  its  leaders  had  laid  hold  upon  the  thoughts  in 
these  books,  had  made  them  its  own  and  so  given  them 
life.  In  the  process  the  thoughts  had  been  twisted  and 
bent,  some  parts  ignored  and  others  brought  out  of  all 
their  nice  proportions.  Exaggeration,  sentiment,  all  kinds 
of  crudity  were  here.  But  it  was  crudity  alive,  a  creed 
was  here  in  action.  Out  of  all  the  turmoil,  the  take  and 
give,  the  jar  and  clash  back  there  in  the  meeting  hall, 
had  come  certain  thoughts  and  passions,  hopes  and  plans, 
that  the  multitude  had  not  ignored  or  hooted  but  had 
caught  up  and  cheered  into  life.  And  these  ideas  that 
they  had  cheered  were  now  being  pounded  back  into 
their  minds.  Monotonous  repetition,  you  say?  Yes, 


324  THE    HARBOR 

monotonous  repetition — slow  sledgehammer  blows  upon 
something  red  hot — pounding,  pounding,  pounding — that 
V— -when  it  cooled  its  shape  might  be  changed. 

JSTora  Ganey  was  speaking. 

"Look  at  those  ocean  liners!"  she  cried.  Her  voice 
was  sharp  and  strident.  "They're  paralyzed  now,  and 
because  they  are  they're  costing  the  big  companies  mil 
lions  of  dollars  every  day.  That's  what  their  time  is 
worth  to  their  owners.  But  what  are  those  ships  worth 
to  you  ?  Ten  dollars  a  week  and  a  broken  arm — or  a  leg 
or  a  skull,  you  can  take  your  choice.  Six  thousand  of 
you  men  were  crippled  or  crushed  to  death  last  year — 
and  that,  let  me  remind  you,  was  only  in  the  port  of  ISTew 
York.  Why  was  it  ?  Why  did  it  have  to  be  ?  And  why 
will  it  always  have  to  be  until  you  make  these  ships 
your  own  ?  Because,  fellow  workers,  the  time  of  the 
ships  is  worth  so  much  to  their  owners  that  the  work  has 
got  to  be  rushed  day  and  night — and  in  that  rush  some 
body's  bound  to  get  hurt — if  he  isn't  killed  he's  lucky! 
And  as  for  the  rest,  when  at  last  you're  through  and 
dead  tired — they  point  to  the  saloons  and  say,  'Now  have 
a  few  drinks!  We  won't  need  you  again  till  next  Tues 
day'  !  Do  you  know  what  all  this  means  in  your  homes  ? 
It  means  drunks,  cripples,  sick  and  poor !  It  means  such 
sights  as  I'll  never  forget.  I've  seen  'em  all — just  lately ! 

"I  never  thought  of  such  things  before.  I  liked  my 
office  job  on  the  dock  and  all  the  jobs  around  me — and 
when  sailing  time  drew  near  I  liked  the  last  excitement. 
I  liked  the  rich  furs  and  dresses  and  the  cute  little  ear 
rings  and  slippers  and  dogs  that  were  attached  to  the 
women  who  came.  I  liked  to  see  them  pile  out  of  their 
motors  and  laugh  and  make  eyes  at  the  men  they  be 
longed  to.  I  liked  to  peep  into  the  cabins  they  had — 
get  on  to  all  the  luxuries  there. 

"But  out  of  all  this  magnificence,  friends,  and  this 
work  that  keeps  it  going — I  saw  one  day  a  man  come  on 
a  stretcher.  He  was  dead.  And  that  started  me  think- 


1HE   HARBOR  325 

ing.  That's  why  I  came  out  when  the  strike  was  called. 
And  in  the  strike  I've  gone  into  your  homes.  I've  seen 
what  those  soft  expensive  female  dolls  and  all  the  work 
that  makes  them  costs.  And  I've  got  a  thrill  of  another 
kind!  It's  a  thrill  that'll  last  for  the  rest  of  my  life! 
And  in  yours,  too,  fellow  workers!  For  I  believe  that 
you'll  go  right  on — that  you'll  strike  and  strike  and  strike 
again — till  you  make  these  tenements  own  these  ships — 
and  a  life  won't  be  thrown  away  for  a  dollar !" 

She  stopped  sharply  and  stepped  back,  and  there  burst 
out  a  frenzy  of  applause,  which  died  down  to  be  caught 
up  and  prolonged  and  deepened  into  a  steady  roar,  as 
Marsh  came  slowly  forward.  He  stood  there  bareheaded, 
impassive  and  quiet,  listening  to  the  great  voice  of  the 
mass.  At  last  he  turned  to  the  chairman.  The  latter 
picked  up  a  whistle,  and  at  that  piercing  call  to  order 
slowly  the  cheering  began  to  subside.  Faces  pressed 
eagerly  closer.  Marsh  looked  all  around  him. 

"Fellow  workers,"  he  began,  "it's  hard  for  a  man  to 
be  understood  when  he's  talking  to  men  from  all  over 
the  world."  H!e  pointed  down  to  a  cluster  of  Lascars 
with  white  turbans  on  their  heads.  "You  don't  under 
stand  me.  But  some  of  year  comrades  will  give  you  my 
speech,  for  we  are  all  ^rike  brothers  here.  On  the  ship 
there  is  no  flag — or,  the  ship  there  is  no  nation — on  the 
ship  there  is  on^y  work — on  the  ship  there  are  only  the 
workers ! 

"For  a  ship  may  be  equipped  with  the  most  powerful 
engines  to  drive  her — she  may  have  the  best  brains  to 
direct  her  course — but  the  ship  can't  sail  until  you  go 
aboard!  You're  the  men  who  make  the  ships  of  use, 
you're  the  men  who  give  value  to  the  stock  of  all  the  big 
ship  companies !  You  are  the  ship  industry — and  to  you 
the  ship  industry  should  belong! 

"I  want  you  now  to  think  of  a  tombstone.  Out  in  the 
'Atlantic,  two  miles  down  they  tell  me,  a  big  ship  is  stuck 
with  her  bow  in  the  ooze  of  the  ocean  floor  and  her  stern 


326  THE   HARBOR 

gix  hundred  feet  up  in  the  water.  In  the  cold  green 
light  down  there  she  looks  like  a  tombstone — and  she  is 
packed  with  dead  people  inside.  She  is  there  because 
where  she  should  have  had  lifeboats  she  had  French 
cafes  instead,  and  sun  parlors  for  the  ladies.  Some  of 
these  ladies  went  down  with  the  ship,  and  we  heard  a  lot 
about  their  screams.  But  we  haven't  heard  much  of  ths 
cries  for  help  of  the  thousands  of  men  who  go  down 
every  year  in  rotten  old  ships  upon  the  seas !  ISTor  have 
we  heard  of  the  millions  more  who  are  killed  on  land — 
on  the  railroads,  in  the  mines  and  mills  and  stinking 
slums  of  cities! 

"But  now  we've  decided  that  cries  like  these  are  to 
be  heard  all  over  the  world.  For  we've  only  got  one  life 
apiece — we're  not  quite  sure  of  another.  And  because  we 
do  all  the  work  that  is  done  we  want  all  the  life  there  is 
to  be  had!  All  the  life  there  is  to  be  had — that's  what 
we  are  striking  for !  That  is  our  share  of  the  life  in  this 
world!  And  until  we  get  our  share  this  labor  war  will 
have  no  end !  Other  wars  may  come  and  go — but  under 
them  all  on  land  and  sea  this  war  of  ours  will  go  steadily 
on — will  swallow  up  all  other  wars — will  swallow  up  in 
all  your  minds  all  hatred  of  your  brother  men !  For  you 
they  will  be  workers  all !  With  them  you  will  rise — and 
the  world  will  be  free!" 

When  the  long  stormy  din  of  cheers  had  little  by  little 
died  away  Joe  Kramer  began  the  last  speech  of  the  day. 
He  had  eaten  and  slept  little,  he  had  lived  on  coffee  and 
cigarettes,  and  there  was  a  strained  look  in  his  deep  eyes 
as  he  rose  up  lean  and  gaunt  by  my  side. 

"I'm  here  to-day  to  speak  to  the  men  who  work  in 
stokeholes  naked,"  he  said.  "I'm  here  to  talk  of  the  lives 
you  lead — the  lives  that  millions  before  you  have  led — 
for  a  few  brief  years — and  then  they  have  died.  For 
lives  in  stokeholes  are  not  long.  And  before  I  begin 
I  propose  that  we  stand  for  a  moment  with  uncovered 


THE    HARBOR  327 

heads."  He  looked  out  over  the  multitude  as  though 
seeing  far  beyond  them,  and  his  voice  was  as  harsh  as 
the  look  in  his  eyes.  "As  a  tribute  to  all  the  dead  stokers," 
he  said. 

And  in  a  breathless  silence  the  multitude  did  what  he 
had  asked.  Joe  broke  this  silence  sharply. 

"Now  for  life  and  the  living,"  he  said.  "Why  was  it 
that  those  men  all  died  ?  What  has  the  change  from  sails 
to  steam  done  to  the  lives  of  the  men  at  sea  ? 

"The  old  sailor  at  least  had  air  to  breathe.  But  what 
you  breathe  is  red  hot  gas — I  know  because  I've  been 
there.  There  is  a  gong  upon  the  wall,  and  when  it  clangs 
you  heave  in  coal,  and  if  when  it  clangs  faster  you  don't 
keep  quite  up  to  its  pace,  a  white  light  flashes  out  of  the 
wall,  and  that  light  is  the  Chief  Engineer's  way  of  say 
ing,  'God  damn  you,  keep  up  those  fires  down  there !  Time 
is  money!  Who  are  you?' 

"The  old-time  sailor  lived  on  deck.  He  had  the  winds, 
the  sun  and  the  stars.  But  you  live  down  between  steel 
walls — with  only  the  glare  of  electric  lights  in  which 
you  sleep  and  eat  and  sweat.  You  work  at  all  kinds  of 
irregular  hours,  for  you  there  is  no  day  or  night.  You 
don't  know  whether  the  millionaire  and  his  last  and 
loveliest  wife  are  drinking  champagne  before  going  to 
bed,  in  their  cabin  de  luxe  above  you,  or  taking  their 
coffee  the  next  day  at  noon.  You  don't  know  about  any 
thing  way  up  there — unless  you  go  up  as  I've  seen  you 
do,  half  out  of  your  senses  from  the  heat,  and  make  a 
sudden  jump  for  the  rail.  The  cry  is  heard — 'Man  over 
board!' — then  shrieks  and  a  chorus  of  'Oh-my-God's !' 
And  then  somebody  says,  'It's  only  a  stoker.' ' 

He  stopped  short,  and  at  the  sudden  roar  of  the  crowd 
I  saw  him  frown  and  quiver.  He  drew  a  deep,  slow 
breath  and  went  on: 

"They  threw  off  all  the  good  in  the  ship  with  sails — 
Ibut  they  carefully  kept  all  that  was  bad.  The  old  mutiny 
laws — they  kept  all  that.  Undermanning  of  crews — they 


328  THE   HAKBOR 

kept  all  that.  The  waterfront  sharks — they  kept  all  that. 
But  there  was  one  thing  they  couldn't  keep — the  old 
sailor's  habit  of  standing  all  this!  He  had  run  away 
to  sea  as  a  boy,  he'd  been  kicked  all  his  life  by  the  bucko 
mate  into  a  state  where  he  couldn't  kick  back.  But  with 
you  men  it  is  not  so.  Among  all  the  thousands  standing 
here  most  were  on  shore  a  few  years  ago,  and  you  took:; 
your  land  views  with  you  on  board.  You  organized  sea,-  , 
men's  unions.  The  one  in  this  country  was  meek  and 
mild.  It  did  not  strike,  it  went  on  its  knees  to  Congress 
instead,  and  here's  part  of  the  written  petition  it  made. 
'We  raise  our  manacled  hands  in  humble  supplication — 
and  we  pray  that  the  nations  of  the  earth  issue  a  decree 
for  our  emancipation — restore  us  our  rights  as  brother 
men.'  But  Congress  had  no  ear  for  you  then.  Sailors  are 
men  who  have  no  votes.  And  so  you  failed  in  your  plead 
ing. 

"But  in  the  labor  movement  there  seems  to  be  no  such 
word  as  fail!  You  have  not  given  up  your  union — in 
stead  you  have  formed  one  of  a  kind  more  dangerous  to 
your  masters !  You  have  not  made  smaller  your  requests 
— no,  you  are  now  demanding  more!  And  instead  of 
asking  for  merciful  laws  you  are  saying,  'We  are  done 
with  your  laws,  will  have  none  of  your  laws,  will  break 
your  laws  when  they  come  in  our  way!' 

"And  what  do  your  masters  answer?  Here  are  thou 
sands  of  deserters — every  man  here  has  broken  the  law 
by  leaving  his  ship!  But  have  they  tried  to  arrest  you? 
No!  They're  afraid  to  arrest  twenty  thousand  men, 
they're  afraid  of  this  strike,  they're  afraid  of  you! 
They're  so  almighty  scared  downtown  that  though  we've 
been  only  a  week  on  strike  they've  already  sent  their 
commands  to  their  Congress  to  give  us  what  merciful  laws 
we  like.  They're  scared  because  we've  thrown  over  their 
laws — because  they  know  that  we  now  see  our  power — to 
stop  all  their  ships  and  the  trade  of  their  land  and  send 
their  stock  market  into  a  panic ! 


THE   HARBOR  329 

"And  now  do  you  know  what  I  want  you  to  do?  I 
•want  you  to  look  at  their  ships,  at  their  docks,  at  their 
harbor,  men — and  laugh — laugh!  Don't  you  see  there's 
no  need  of  violence?  Laugh!  In  old  times  the  people 
built  barricades.  You  don't  need  barricades  nor  any  guns 
— all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  stand  here  and  laugh !  Look' 
at  all  you  have  done  to  your  bosses — and  laugh!  To  this 
town,  to  this  nation — and  laugh,  laugh!  Look — and 
think — of  what  you  can  do — all  you — and  you — and  you 
— and  you — by  just  folding  your  arms!  Think  of  all 
you  will  do !  And  laugh — laugh !  Laugh !  Laugh !" 

He  broke  off  with  both  arms  raised,  and  there  followed 
one  moment  without  a  sound.  Then  suddenly,  quick  and 
hard  and  clear,  from  a  corner  of  this  human  ocean,  I 
heard  a  single  peal  of  laughter.  In  an  instant  scores 
joined  in.  Rising  in  outbursts  here  and  there,  deepening, 
rushing  out  over  the  Farm,  it  gathered  and  rolled  in  wave 
on  wave,  rising,  always  rising.  And  it  swelled  into  such 
a  laugh  that  I  saw  the  police  feel  for  their  clubs.  Re 
porters  scrambled  for  high  places,  turned  their  kodaks  on 
it  all.  Women  snatched  up  their  babies  in  terror  and 
ran.  Marsh  stepped  forward,  caught  Joe  by  the  arm  and 
jerked  him  back  to  where  I  was  standing.  I  gripped 
Joe's  hand,  it  was  icy  cold. 

Marsh  shouted  to  the  chairman,  and  the  piercing  whistle 
for  order  was  heard.  But  it  took  a  long  time  for  that 
laugh  to  die.  Long  after  the  meeting  had  broken  up 
I  saw  groups  gather  together,  and  presently  they  would 
begin  to  laugh,  and  their  laughter  would  take  on  again 
that  same  convulsive  tensity.  I  heard  small  clusters  laugh 
ing,  and  dense  throngs  in  hot  saloons  where  the  low  rooms 
would  echo  and  double  the  roar. 

Late  at  night  out  on  the  waterfront,  under  the  bow 
of  that  Morgan  ship,  I  found  two  strikers  smoking  their 
pipes,  and  I  sat  down  and  lighted  mine.  One  was  a  Las 
car,  the  other  a  Pole.  In  the  strike  these  wanderers  over 
the  earth  had  met  on  the  waterfront  under  a  wagon  where 


330  THE   HARBOR 

each  had  come  to  sleep  the  night.  Since  then  they  had 
become  good  friends.  Each  spoke  a  little  English,  each 
one  had  caught  bits  here  and  there  from  the  speeches  made 
that  afternoon — and  they  had  been  trying  to  pool  what 
they'd  heard,  trying  to  find  why  it  was  they  had  laughed. 
As  now  I  tried  to  give  them  the  gist  of  what  Joe  Kramer 
had  said,  from  time  to  time  they  would  glance  up  at  the 
big  ship  they  had  paralyzed  and  chuckle  softly  to  them 
selves. 

Then  I  went  on  to  Marsh's  speech.  And  out  there  in 
the  darkness  I  could  feel  their  rough  faces,  one  white  and 
one  brown,  grow  deeply,  eagerly  intent,  as  these  strike 
brothers  listened  to  the  voice  that  had  spoken  the  dream 
of  the  crowd: 

"Other  wars  may  come  and  go — but  under  them  all  on 
land  and  sea  this  war  of  ours  will  go  steadily  on — will 
swallow  up  all  other  wars — will  swallow  up  in  all  your 
minds  all  hatred  of  your  brother  men.  For  you  they 
will  be  workers  all.  With  them  you  will  riue — and  the 
world  will  be  free." 


CHAPTER    XV 

To  all  this,  from  the  buildings  far  downtown  that 
loomed  like  tall  grim  shadows,  the  big  companies  said 
nothing. 

But  that  same  night,  while  I  sat  talking  to  those  two 
men,  we  heard  a  sharp  excited  cry.  We  saw  a  man  be 
hind  us  running  along  the  line  of  saloons.  From  these 
and  from  the  tenements  came  pouring  angry  throngs  of 
men.  And  out  of  the  hubbub  I  caught  the  words, 

"They're  bringing  in  the  scabs !     By  boat !" 

Past  a  watchman  that  I  knew  I  ran  into  a  dock-shed 
and  out  to  the  open  end  of  the  dock.  And  there  I  saw 
a  weird  ominous  scene.  Up  the  empty  harbor,  under  a 
dark  and  cloudy  sky,  came  four  barges,  black  with  negro 
laborers,  and  ahead  and  around  and  behind  them  came 
police  boats  throwing  their  searchlights  upon  an  angry 
swarm  of  union  picket  dories,  from  which  as  they  drew 
nearer  I  heard  furious  voices  shouting,  "Scab!"  One 
of  the  barges  docked  where  I  stood  and  the  negroes  quickly 
slunk  inside.  I  drew  back  from  them  as  they  passed,  for 
to  me  too  they  were  "scabs"  that  night.  Afraid  to  face 
the  men  outside,  whose  jobs  they  had  taken,  these  strike 
breakers  were  to  live  on  the  dock,  under  cover  of  police. 
Soon  half  of  them  lay  snoring  on  long  crowded  rows  of 
cots.  Food  and  hot  coffee  were  served  to  the  rest.  Then 
I  heard  the  harsh  rattle  of  winches,  I  saw  these  negroes 
trundling  freight,  the  cargo  went  swooping  up  into  the 
ship — and  with  a  deep  dismay,  a  sharp  foreboding  of 
trouble  ahead,  I  felt  the  work  of  the  harbor  begun. 

I  heard  a  quick  voice  at  my  elbow: 

331 


332  THE    HARBOR 

"Say.  What  the  hell  are  you  doing  here?"  I  turned 
to  the  Pinkerton  man  by  my  side: 

"I'm  reporting  this  strike." 

"ISTo  you're  not,  you're  in  here  to  report  what  you  see 
to  the  strikers.     !Now  don't  let's  have   any  words,  my 
friend,  we've  seen  you  in  their  meeting-hall  and  we've 
>  all  got  your  number.    Go  on  out  where  you  belong !" 
?      So  I  went  out  where  I  belonged. 

I  went  out  to  the  crowd — but  I  found  it  changed,  split 
up  into  furious  swarms  of  men,  I  found  the  beginning 
of  chaos  here.  And  the  world  that  I  had  left  behind, 
the  old  world  of  order  and  rule  from  above,  which  I  had 
all  but  forgotten  of  late,  now  sharply  made  its  presence 
felt.  For  the  god  I  had  once  known  so  well  was  neither 
dead  nor  sleeping.  Behind  closed  doors,  the  doors  that 
had  flown  open  once  to  show  me  every  courtesy,  it  had 
been  silently  laying  plans  and  sending  forth  orders  or 
"requests"  to  all  those  in  its  service. 

The  next  day  the  newspapers  changed  their  tone. 
Until  now  they  had  given  us  half  the  front  page.  Every 
statement  I  had  written  had  been  printed  word  for  word. 
The  reporters  had  been  free  to  dig  columns  of  "human 
interest  stuff"  out  of  the  rich  mine  of  color  here,  and  they 
had  gone  at  it  hungrily,  many  with  real  sympathy.  You 
would  have  thought  the  entire  press  was  on  the  side  of 
the  strikers,  at  times  it  had  almost  seemed  to  me  as  though 
the  entire  country  had  risen  in  revolt.  But  now  all  this 
was  suddenly  stopped,  and  in  its  place  the  front  pages 
1  were  filled  with  news  of  a  very  different  kind.  "Big 
Companies  Move  at  Last,"  were  the  headlines,  "Work  of 
Breaking  Strike  Begun."  The  first  ship  would  sail  that 
evening,  three  more  would  be  ready  to  start  the  next  day, 
and  within  a  week  the  big  companies  hoped  to  resume 
the  regular  service.  They  regretted  the  loss  to  shippers 
of  all  the  perishable  produce  which  to  the  value  of  mil 
lions  of  dollars  had  been  rotting  away  at  the  docks.  They 
deplored  the  inconvenience  and  ruin  which  had  been 


THE   HARBOR  333 

brought  on  the  innocent  public  by  these  bodies  of  rough, 
irresponsible  men  who  had  openly  defied  the  law.  With 
such  men  there  could  be  no  arbitration,  and  in  fact  there 
was  no  need.  The  port  would  be  open  inside  of  a  week. 

So  the  big  companies  spoke  at  last.  And  as  I  read  the 
papers,  at  home  that  day  at  breakfast,  I  remembered  what 
Eleanore's  father  had  said:  "Don't  let  yourself  forget 
for  one  minute  that  the  men  behind  me  are  going  to 
stamp  out  this  strike."  Not  without  a  fight,  I  thought. 
But  I  was  anxious  and  depressed.  Dillon  had  not  come 
of  late,  he  had  felt  that  we  wanted  to  be  alone.  As  now 
I  glanced  at  Eleanore,  whose  eyes  were  intent  on  the 
news  of  the  day,  I  saw  with  a  rush  of  pity  and  love  how 
alone  she  suddenly  felt  in  all  this.  A  moment  later  she 
looked  up. 

"Pretty  bad,  isn't  it,  dear?"  she  said. 

"It  doesn't  look  very  fine  just  now." 

"Are  you  going  down  to  the  docks?" 

"Yes,  they'll  want  me,"  I  replied,  "to  write  some  an 
swer  to  this  stuff." 

"Can  you  wait  a  few  moments  ?"  Eleanore  rose.  "I'll 
get  on  my  hat.  I  promised  Nora  Ganey  I'd  run  her  re 
lief  station  for  her  to-day."  I  took  her  a  moment  in  my 
arms: 

"You're  no  quitter,  are  you?"  I  said. 

"We're  in  this  now,"  she  answered,  just  a  little  breath 
lessly.  "And  so  of  course  we'll  see  it  through." 

So  we  went  down  together. 

The  waterfront  looked  different  now.  In  front  of  the 
docks  where  work  had  begun  a  large  space  had  been  roped 
off.  Inside  the  rope  was  an  unbroken  cordon  of  police. 
And  without,  but  pressing  close,  the  multitude  of 
people  for  whom  in  a  day  so  much  had  been  changed, 
moved  restlessly,  no  longer  sure  of  its  power,  no  longer 
sure  of  anything  but  a  fast  rising  hatred  of  the  men  who 
had  taken  their  jobs.  As  at  times  the  police  lines  tight 
ened  and  the  negroes  came  out  for  more  freight,  thou- 


334  THE    HARBOR 

sands  of  ominous  eyes  looked  on.  Standing  here  at  one 
such  time,  I  saw  a  negro  striker  pass.  His  head  was 
down  and  he  walked  quickly — for  race  feeling  had 
begun. 

The  first  ship  sailed  that  evening.  Tens  of  thousands 
watched  her  sail.  And  a  bitter  voice  beside  me  said, 

"Laughing  ain't  going  to  be  enough." 

Among  men  on  strike  there  are  two  kinds  of  attitudes 
toward  those  who  take  their  places.  The  first  is  the  scorn 
of  the  man  who  is  winning.  "You  are  a  dirty  scab,"  it 
says.  "You're  a  Judas  to  the  working  class  and  a  thief 
who  is  trying  to  steal  my  job.  But  you  won't  get  it,  we're 
bound  to  win,  and  you're  barely  worth  kicking  out  of 
the  way."  The  second  is  quite  a  different  feeling.  In 
this  is  the  fear  of  the  man  who  is  losing — and  fear,  as 
an  English  writer  has  said,  is  the  great  mother  of  vio 
lence.  "You  may  keep  my  job!  And  if  you  do  I'll  be 
left  with  nothing  to  live  on!"  It  is  this  second  attitude 
which  is  dreaded  by  strike  leaders,  for  it  leads  to  a  loss 
of  all  control,  to  machine  guns  and  defeat. 

With  a  deepening  uneasiness  I  saw  this  feeling  now 
appear.  Starting  in  small  groups  of  men,  I  saw  it  spread 
out  over  the  mass  with  the  speed  of  a  prairie  fire.  I 
felt  it  that  afternoon  on  the  Farm,  changing  with  a 
startling  speed  that  sure  and  mighty  giant,  the  crowd, 
into  a  blind  disordered  throng,  a  mottled  mass  of  groups 
of  men  angrily  discussing  the  news.  Threats  against 
"scabs"  were  shouted  out,  the  word  "scab"  arose  on  every 
side.  Bitter  things  were  said  against  "coons,"  not  only 
"scabs"  but  "all  of  'em,  God  damn  'em !"  There  were 
hints  of  violence  and  open  threats  of  sabotage,  things  done 
to  dock  machinery. 

But  presently,  by  slow  degrees,  as  though  by  a  deep 
instinct  groping  for  the  giant  spirit  that  had  been  its 
life  and  soul,  I  felt  the  crowd  now  gather  itself.  Slowly 
the  cries  all  died  away  and  all  eyes  turned  to  the  leader. 
Facing  them  with  arms  upraised,  Marsh  stood  on  the 


THE   HARBOR  335 

speakers'  pile,  his  own  face  imperturbable,  his  own  voice 
absolutely  sure. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  when  silence  had  come,  "one  lone 
some  ship  has  gone  to  sea — so  badly  loaded,  they  tell 
me,  that  she  ain't  got  even  a  chance  in  a  storm.  She  was 
loaded  by  scabs." 

A  savage  storm  of  "booh's"  burst  forth.  He  waited 
until  it  subsided  and  then  continued  quietly: 

"We  have  no  use  for  scabs,  black  or  white.  But  we 
have  use  for  strikers,  both  black  and  white — our  negro 
brothers  are  with  us  still,  and  we'll  show  them  we  know 
that  they  are  our  brothers.  We're  going  to  stand  to 
gether,  we  won't  let  the  bosses  split  us  apart.  And  when 
we  read  the  papers  to-morrow  we're  going  to  ask  if  the 
news  is  all  there — not  the  little  news  in  big  headlines 
about  a  ship  or  two  leaving  port,  but  the  big  news  in  a 
little  paragraph,  that  you  have  so  stopped  this  nation's 
trade  that  now  its  Congress  is  demanding  that  your 
masters  come  to  terms !  And  as  for  this  lonesome  ship 
that  has  sailed,  if  you  want  to  see  just  how  much  that 
means,  go  down  and  look  at  Wall  Street.  They  say  down 
there,  'We're  all  right  now.'  But  their  market  prices 
say,  'We're  all  wrong !' ' 

Suddenly  out  of  the  multitude  there  came  a  high,  clear 
voice : 

"You  seem  to  know  Wall  Street,  Brother  Marsh.  Have 
you  been  selling  short  down  there?  Who's  your  private 
broker  ?" 

Instantly  there  was  a  rush  toward  the  questioner,  but 
a  group  of  police  formed  quickly  around  him  and  he  was 
hurried  out  of  the  way. 

"Get  after  that,  Jim,  get  after  it  quick!"  said  Joe 
by  my  side.  And  Marsh  lost  not  a  moment. 

"Let  that  man  go!"  he  shouted.  "He  was  sent  here 
to  try  to  stir  up  a  riot.  That  lie  was  framed  up  'way 
downtown!  But  it  is  a  lie  and  you  all  know  it — you 
know  how  I  live  and  how  my  wife  lives — we  don't  ex- 


336  THE    HARBOR 

actly  roll  in  wealth!  But  even  if  I  were  a  crook,  or  if 
I  were  dead,  this  strike  would  go  on  exactly  the  same — 
for  think  a  minute  and  you'll  see  that  whatever  has  been 
done  in  this  struggle  has  been  done  each  time  by  you. 
It's  you  who  have  decided  each  point.  It's  you  who  have 
been  called  here  to-day  to  decide  the  one  big  question. 
Congress  has  said,  'Arbitrate.'  It's  for  you  all  to  decide 
on  our  answer.  This  is  no  one-man  union,  there  is  no 
one  man  they  can  fix,  nor  even  a  small  committee.  We're 
a  committee  of  fifty  thousand  here  to  make  our  own 
laws  for  ourselves.  As  you  lift  up  your  hands  and  vote, 
so  it  will  be  decided.  But  before  you  do  I  want  to  say 
this.  I  care  so  little  for  Wall  Street  and  I  am  so  sure 
we'll  win  this  strike,  that  with  all  the  strength  I  have 
in  me  I  beg  you  to  answer.,  'No  arbitration,  nothing  half 
way !  All  or  nothing !'  If  this  is  your  answer,  hold  up 
your  hands!" 

Up  went  the  hands  by  thousands,  the  crowd  was  all 
together  now  and  again  it  spoke  in  one  great  roar.  And 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  hope  I  told  myself,  "It's  still  alive ! 
This  fight  has  only  just  begun !" 

"That  is  our  answer  to  Congress,"  said  Marsh,  when 
again  quiet  had  been  restored.  "That  is  the  law  which 
we  have  enacted.  This  strike  is  to  be  fought  through  to 
the  end.  We  are  not  to  be  scared  by  Wall  Street  or  worked 
upon  by  their  hired  thugs  and  so  resort  to  violence.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  violence,"  he  continued  sharply,  "I  am  here 
to  preach  it.  But  the  only  violence  I  preach  is  the  vio 
lence  of  folded  arms.  You  have  folded  your  arms  and 
their  ships  are  dead.  No  other  kind  is  so  deadly  as 
that.  Only  hold  to  this  kind  of  violence,  and  though 
they  may  send  out  a  ship  here  and  there,  this  great 
port  of  New  York  will  stay  closed — bringing  ruin 
all  over  the  land — till  the  nation  turns  to  Wall  Street 
and  says,  'We  cannot  wait!  You  will  have  to  give 
in!'" 

As  he  ended  his  speech,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  he 


THE    HARBOR  337 

•were  reaching  far  out,  gripping  that  throng  and  holding 
it  in.  But  for  how  long  could  he  hold  them  ? 

Every  paper  that  they  read  had  suddenly  turned  against 
them  and  prophesied  their  swift  defeat.  Two  more  ships 
sailed  that  night.  And  as  Marsh  had  foretold,  their  sail 
ing  was  played  up  in  pictures  and  huge  headlines,  while 
the  statement  that  I  wrote  was  cut  to  one  small  para 
graph  and  put  upon  the'  second  page. 

That  night,  with  the  eager  aid  of  strikers  of  five  na 
tionalities,  I  wrote  a  message  to  the. crowd,  translated  it 
into  German  and  French,  Spanish,  Italian  and  Polish. 
A  socialist  paper  loaned  us  their  press,  and  by  noon  our 
message  was  scattered  in  leaflets  all  up  and  down  the 
waterfront.  This  message  went  out  daily  now.  For  the 
greater  part  of  each  night  I  sat  in  strike  headquarters 
and  wrote  direct  to  the  tenements. 

The  next  day  Marsh  proposed  a  parade,  and  the  Farm 
took  it  up  with  prompt  acclaim.  He  challenged  the  mayor 
of  the  city  to  stop  it.  To  friends  who  came  to  him  later 
he  said: 

"You  tell  the  mayor  that  I'm  doing  my  best  to  give 
these  men  something  peaceful  to  do.  If  he  wants  to  help 
me,  all  well  and  good.  If  he  don't,  let  him  try  to  stop 
this  parade." 

And  the  mayor  granted  a  permit. 

The  next  afternoon  the  Fifth  Avenue  shops  all  closed 
their  doors,  and  over  the  rich  displays  in  their  windows 
heavy  steel  shutters  were  rolled  down.  The  long  proces 
sion  of  motors  and  cabs  with  their  gaily  dressed  shop 
pers  had  disappeared,  and  in  their  place  was  another  pro 
cession,  men,  women  and  children,  old  and  young.  All 
around  me  as  I  marched  I  heard  an  unending  torrent  of 
voices  speaking  many  languages,  uniting  in  strange  cheers 
and  songs  brought  from  all  over  the  ocean  world.  Bright- 
colored  turbans  bobbed  up  here  and  there,  for  there  was 
no  separation  of  races,  all  walked  together  in  dense 


338  THE   HARBOR 

crowds,  the  whole  strike  family  was  here.  And  listening 
and  watching  I  felt  myself  a  member  now.  Behind  me 
came  a  long  line  of  trucks  packed  with  sick  or  crippled 
men.  At  their  head  was  a  black  banner  on  which  was 
painted,  "Our  Wounded."  Behind  the  wagons  a  small 
cheap  band  came  blaring  forth  a  funeral  dirge,  and  behind 
the  band,  upon  men's  shoulders,  came  eleven  coffins,  in 
which  were  those  dock  victims  who  had  died  in  the  last 
few  days.  This  section  had  its  banner  too,  and  it  was 
marked,  "Our  Dead." 

But  at  one  point,  late  in  the  afternoon,  some  marcher 
just  ahead  of  me  suddenly  started  to  laugh.  At  first  I 
thought  he  was  simply  in  fun.  But  he  kept  on.  Those- 
near  him  then  caught  the  look  on  his  face  and  they  all 
began  to  laugh  with  him.  Each  moment  louder,  uglier,  it 
swept  up  the  Avenue.  And  as  it  swelled  in  volume,  like 
the  menace  of  some  furious  beast,  the  uncontrollable  pas 
sion  I  heard  filled  me  again  with  a  sharp  foreboding  of 
violence  in  the  crisis  ahead. 

"Why  are  you  here  ?"  I  asked  myself.  "You  can't  join 
in  a  laugh  like  that — you're  no  real  member  of  this  crowd 
— their  world  is  not  where  you  belong!" 

But  from  somewhere  deep  inside  me  a  voice  rose  up  in 
answer : 

"If  the  crowd  is  growing  blind — is  this  the  time  to 
leave  it  ?  Wait." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

FIVE  more  vessels  sailed  that  day.  And  in  the  even 
ing  Eleanore  said: 

"The  women  who  came  to  our  station  to-day  kept  ask 
ing,  'Why  can't  they  close  up  the  saloons?  They're  just 
the  places  for  trouble  to  start.' ' 

"We'll  try,"  I  said,  and  that  same  night  Marsh  sent 
word  through  a  friend  to  the  mayor  asking  him  to  close 
all  barrooms  on  the  waterfront  during  the  strike.  The 
mayor  sent  back  a  refusal.  He  said  he  had  no  power. 

Late  that  night  I  went  down  the  line  and  found  each 
barroom  packed  with  men  who  were  talking  of  those 
ships  that  had  sailed.  And  they  talked  of  "scabs."  Speak 
ers  I  had  not  heard  before  were  now  shouting  and  pound 
ing  the  bar  with  their  fists.  The  papers  the  next  morning 
ran  lurid  accounts  of  these  saloons  and  the  open  threats 
of  violence  there.  They  censured  the  mayor  for  his  weak 
ness  and  called  for  the  militia.  Why  wait  for  mobs  and 
bloodshed  ? 

To  that  challenge  I  heard  the  reply  of  the  crowd,  on 
the  Farm  that  afternoon,  in  their  applause  of  the  fiery 
speech  of  a  swarthy  little  Spaniard.  Francesco  Vasca  was 
his  name. 

"They  are  sending  hired  murderers  who  will  come  here 
to  shoot  us  down !  But  when  they  come,"  he  shouted,  "I 
want  you  to  remember  this!  A  jail  cell  is  no  smaller 
than  our  holes  in  the  bottoms  of  their  ships,  the  food  is 
no  worse  than  the  scouse  we  shall  eat  if  we  give  in  and 
go  back  to  our  jobs !  And  so  we  shall  not  be  driven  back ! 
When  the  militia  come  against  us,  armed  with  guns  and 
bayonets,  then  let  us  go  to  meet  them  armed " 

339 


340  THE   HARBOB 

He  stopped  short,  and  from  one  end  to  the  other  of 
that  motionless  mass  of  men  there  fell  a  death-like  silence. 
Then  he  grimly  ended  his  speech : 

"Armed  with  patience,  courage  and  a  deep  belief  in  our 
cause." 

In  the  sudden  storm  of  cheers  and  "boon's"  I  leaned 
over  to  Joe  at  my  side: 

"Why  did  you  let  that  man  speak  ?" 

The  frown  tightened  on  Joe's  face. 

"Because  he's  one  of  us,"  he  said. 

Seven  more  ships  had  sailed  by  that  night. 

In  front  of  the  dock-sheds,  outside  the  double  line  of 
police,  the  throng  had  grown  denser  day  by  day,  and 
each  time  the  "scabs"  came  out  there  had  been  a  burst 
of  imprecations,  a  fierce  pressing  forward.  The  police 
had  repeatedly  used  their  clubs.  Now  late  in  the  after 
noon  a  red  hospital  ambulance  came  clanging  down  the 
waterfront.  It  was  greeted  by  triumphant  shouts.  "Some 
black  bastard  hurt  at  last!"  There  was  a  quick  gather 
ing  of  police  and  a  lane  was  formed  reaching  into  the 
dock.  Through  this  lane  drove  the  ambulance,  and  as 
presently  it  emerged  it  was  greeted  by  tumultuous  cheers. 

The  papers  the  next  morning  said  that  a  raging,  howling 
mob  had  tried  to  reach  the  injured  man.  Cries  of  "Sa 
botage!"  had  been  heard.  Two  men,  they  said,  had  been 
injured  and  one  killed  on  the  docks  the  day  before.  Was 
this  Sabotage?  Had  the  strikers  fixed  the  winches  with 
the  purpose  of  killing  strike-breakers  ?  Why  not  ?  Their 
leaders  had  openly  preached  it.  Not  only  the  Spaniard 
but  Marsh  himself  was  quoted  as  favoring  violence,  and 
from  that  special  Sabotage  Issue  of  Joe  Kramer's  paper 
long  extracts  were  reprinted.  Were  not  these  three  lead 
ers  responsible  for  the  death  of  that  innocent  black  man  ? 
And  should  leaders  such  as  these  be  allowed  to  go  on 
preaching  murder?  Put  them  in  jail!  Quell  this  in 
surrection  while  still  there  was  time!  So  spoke  the 
press. 


THE   HAEBOR  341 

The  rumor  quickly  spread  about  that  Marsh  and  the 
Spaniard  and  Joe  Kramer  were  to  be  arrested  that  day. 
All  three  remained  at  strike  headquarters,  and  a  dozen 
burly  strikers  kept  the  throng  from  pouring  in.  "Go  on 
home,"  I  could  hear  them  shouting.  But  far  from  going, 
the  throng  increased  until  it  filled  the  whole  street  out 
side.  Suddenly  we  heard  their  cries  rise  into  a  raging  din. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Marsh,  "I  guess  they're  here."  He 
gave  a  few  more  sharp  directions  to  his  aides  and  then 
went  out  into  the  hall.  A  dozen  Central  Office  police 
in  plain  clothes  were  just  coming  in  at  the  door. 

"All  right,"  said  Marsh,  "we're  ready.  But  unless  you 
men  were  sent  here  with  the  idea  of  starting  trouble, 
suppose  you  leave  here  now  without  us.  Each  one  of  us 
will  meet  you  at  any  place  and  time  you  say." 

"We  can't  take  your  orders,  Mr.  Marsh." 

"You  mean  you  were  sent  here  for  trouble?" 

"I  mean  I  have  warrants  for  the  arrest  of  yourself, 
Joseph  Kramer  and  Francesco  Vasca  on  a  charge  of  in 
citement  to  murder." 

And  in  less  than  a  minute  I  saw  Marsh,  the  Spaniard 
and  Joe  Kramer  each  handcuffed  to  two  men,  one  on 
either  side.  As  they  left  the  hall  I  came  close  behind 
with  a  score  of  eager  reporters. 

The  crowd,  to  my  excited  eyes,  was  like  a  crouching 
tiger  now,  glaring  out  of  countless  eyes.  Through  the 
solid  mass  of  men  that  packed  the  street  from  wall  to 
wall,  the  police  had  forced  a  narrow  lane  from  the  patrol 
wagon  to  the  door.  On  either  side  of  this  lane  I  saw  a 
line  of  faces,  eyes.  Some  looked  anxious,  frightened,  and 
were  trying  to  press  back,  but  at  the  sight  of  their  leaders 
now  with  a  roar  the  multitude  swept  in.  In  a  moment  the 
lane  was  gone,  and  some  fifty  police  had  formed  in  a 
circle  around  the  prisoners.  Quickly  their  clubs  rose  and 
fell,  and  men  dropped  all  around  them.  But  furious 
hundreds  kept  rushing  in  from  every  side,  women  and 
children  caught  in  the  tide  were  swept  helplessly  for- 


342  THE    HARBOR 

ward,  came  under  the  clubs  and  went  down  with  the  rest, 
and  still  the  mass  poured  over  them.  Now  at  last  the 
circle  of  bluecoats  was  broken,  policemen  alone  and  in 
small  clusters  were  rushed  and  whirled  this  way  and 
that.  Outnumbered  twenty  to  one,  they  began  to  go 
down  in  the  scrimmage. 

Then  I  heard  a  quick  shout : 

"Use  your  guns !" 

After  that,  two  pistol  shots.  Then  more  in  a  sharp, 
steady  crackle.  The  mass  began  breaking,  out  on  the 
edges  I  could  see  men  starting  to  run.  But  down  the 
street  came  a  troop  of  mounted  police  on  the  gallop,  and, 
straight  through  the  multitude  they  rode.  I  saw  the 
three  prisoners  seized  and  surrounded  and  thrown  into 
the  wagon.  I  saw  it  go  rapidly  away.  The  police  were 
now  making  wholesale  arrests.  That  deep  strident  roar 
of  the  crowd  had  died  down  and  broken  into  panting 
voices,  everywhere  were  struggling  forms. 

Just  before  me  the  throng  opened  and  I  saw  a  woman 
at  my  feet.  Her  face  was  bleeding  from  a  club.  As  I 
stooped  to  lift  her,  I  felt  a  big  hand  grip  my  arm  and 
then  a  heavy,  crushing  weight  press  down  upon  my  head. 
I  felt  myself  sink  down  and  down  into  an  empty  dark 
ness. 

When  I  came  to,  I  was  being  half  pushed  and  half 
thrown  by  police  up  into  one  of  their  wagons.    I  remem 
ber  a  blurred  glimpse  of  more  fighting  forms  around  me. 
Then  a  gong  clanged  and  our  wagon  was  off.     And  in  a/ 
few  moments  we  had  emerged  out  of  all  this  turbulence''' 
into  the  quiet  commonplace  streets  of  a  city  of  ev^ry-day 
business  life. 

In  the  wagon  a  voice  began  singing.  I  looked  up  and 
saw  our  Italian  musician,  the  leader  of  those  gay  ex 
cursions  on  The  Internationale.  Now  he  was  singing 
the  song  of  that  name.  And  as  all  came  in  on  the  chorus, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face.  One  cheek  was  bleeding 
profusely  and  with  one  hand  he  was  keeping  the  blood 


THE   HARBOR  343 

from  trickling  down.  With  the  other  hand  he  was  beat 
ing  time.  And  his  black  eyes  were  blazing. 

Soon  after,  we  came  to  Jefferson  Market  and  stopped 
at  the  entrance  of  the  jail.  As  we  were  hustled  out  of 
the  wagon,  and  in  the  stronger  light  our  cuts  and  swelling 
bruises  came  suddenly  in  view,  two  young  girls  among 
us  began  to  laugh  hysterically.  In  a  moment  we  were 
inside  the  jail  and  shoved  into  a  striker  group  that  had 
come  in  wagons  ahead  of  ours.  A  grim  old  sergeant  at 
the  desk  was  taking  down  names  and  addresses  and  send 
ing  the  prisoners  to  their  cells. 

I  found  my  cell  a  cool  relief  after  all  that  fever  of 
•cries.  With  surprise  I  noticed  it  was  clean.  I  had 
thought  all  cells  were  filthy  holes.  Still  in  a  daze,  I  sat 
down  on  my  cot  and  felt  the  big  bruise  on  my  head. 

"Where  am  I  ?  What  has  happened  ?  What  has  all 
this  to  do  with  me?  What  is  it  going  to  mean  in  my 
life?" 

I  heard  a  nasal  voice  from  somewhere  say: 

"I  know  this  pen.  They're  putting  the  girls  with  the 
prostitutes." 

I  heard  clanging  gongs  outside  and  soon  the  banging 
of  steel  doors  as  more  prisoners  were  put  into  cells.  And 
little  by  little,  through  it  all,  I  made  out  a  low,  eager 
murmur. 

"Say,"  inquired  a  drunken  old  voice.  "Who  are  all 
you  damn  fools  ?  What  is  this  party,  anyhow  ?" 

"It  is  a  revolution !"  a  sharp  little  voice  replied.  And 
at  that,  from  all  sides  other  voices  broke  out.  Then  from 
his  cell  our  musical  friend  again  started  up  the  singing, 
his  strained  tenor  voice  rising  high  over  all.  The  song 
rose  in  volume,  grew  more  intense. 

"Heigh !     Quit  that  noise !"  a  policeman  shouted. 

"Aw,  let  'em  alone,"  said  another.  "They'll  soon  work 
it  off." 

But  we  seemed  to  be  only  working  it  up.  Up  and  up, 
song  followed  song,  and  then  short  impassioned  speeches 


344 


THE    HARBOR 


came  out  of  cells,  and  there  was  applause.  A  voice  asked 
each  one  of  us  to  name  his  nationality,  and  we  found  we 
were  Americans,  Irish,  Scotch  and  Germans,  Italians  and 
Norwegians,  and  three  of  us  were  Lascars  and  one  of  us 
was  a  Coolie.  Then  there  were  cheers  for  the  working 
class  all  over  the  world,  and  after  that  a  call  for  more 
singing.  And  now,  as  one  of  the  songs  died  away,  we 
heard  from  the  woman's  part  of  the  jail  the  young  girls 
singing  in  reply. 

And  slowly  as  I  listened  to  those  songs  that  rose  and 
swelled  and  beat  against  those  walls  of  steel,  I  felt  once 
more  the  presence  of  that  great  spirit  of  the  crowd. 

"That  spirit  will  go  on,'7  I  thought.  "No  jail  can 
stop  the  thing  it  feels !" 

And  at  last  with  a  deep,  warm  certainty  I  felt  myself 
where  I  belonged. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

EAKLY  in  the  evening  I  was  taken  out  to  the  visitor's 
room,  and  there  I  found  Eleanore's  father.  When  he 
saw  me,  Dillon  smiled. 

"Do  you  know  where  you  are  ?"  he  asked.  "You're  not 
in  the  Bastille — or  even  Libby  Prison.  You're  in  the 
Jefferson  Market  Jail." 

"It  hasn't  felt  that  way,"  I  said. 

"Probably  not.  But  it  is  that  way,  and  there's  Elea- 
nore  to  be  thought  of." 

"Eleanore  will  understand." 

I  saw  his  features  tighten.  I  noticed  now  that  his  face 
was  drawn,  as  though  he,  too,  had  been  through  a  good 
deal. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "she  understands.  But  it's  a  bit  tough 
on  her,  isn't  it  ?  Jail  is  not  quite  in  her  line." 

I  felt  my  throat  contracting: 

"I  know  all  that.  I'm  sorry  enough — on  her  ac 
count " 

"Then  let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said.  "I've  brought 
you  bail.  No  use  staying  in  here  all  night." 

"IsFone  at  all,"  I  agreed.  "I  want  to  get  back  to  the 
waterfront.  We're  going  to  issue  an  answer  to  this. 
They'll  need  me  for  the  writing." 

Dillon  watched  me  a  moment. 

"You  won't  be  allowed  to  do  that,"  he  said.  "They're 
under  martial  law  down  there." 

I  looked  up  at  him  quickly: 

"The  troops  are  here  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"These   arrests,   this   riot,"    I    said   a    little   huskily. 

345 


346  THE    HARBOR 

"Weren't  they  all  framed  up  ahead?  They  needed  the 
riot  to  get  in  the  troops." 

"The  troops  are  here." 

"Rather  damnable.  Do  you  think  the  people  on  the 
docks  will  just  sit  back  and  take  it  all  ?" 

"They'll  have  to,"  he  said  gently.  "The  world's  work 
has  been  clogged  up  a  little.  It's  to  go  on  again  now." 

On  the  street  outside  he  took  my  hand: 

"My  boy,  when  this  is  over  we'll  get  together,  you 
and  I." 

"All  right — when  it's  over,"  I  said. 

The  Farm  that  night  again  changed  to  my  eyes.  It 
was  now  an  orderly  village  of  tents,  two  regiments  of 
militia  were  here,  and  their  sentries  reached  for  a  mile 
to  the  north  watching  the  big  companies'  docks. 

I  walked  up  along  the  line  and  had  talks  with  some  of 
the  sentries.  I  remember  one  in  particular,  a  thin, 
nervous  little  man,  a  shoe-clerk  in  a  department  store. 
Every  work-day  for  six  years  he  had  fitted  shoes  on 
ladies'  feet ;  he  had  been  doing  it  all  that  morning.  And 
now  here  he  was  down  on  the  waterfront  with  only  the 
stars  above  him  and  great  shadowy  spaces  all  around,  out 
of  which  at  any  moment  he  expected  rushes  by  strikers. 
These  strikers  to  him  were  not  human,  they  were  "for 
eigners,"  for  the  moment  gone  mad,  to  be  treated  very 
much  as  mad  dogs.  And  here  he  was  all  by  himself,  his 
nerves  on  edge,  with  a  gun  in  his  hands.  The  absurdity 
of  that  gun  in  his  hands !  And  the  serious  danger. 

I  went  into  many  tenements,  into  homes  I  had  come  to 
know  in  the  strike.  And  they,  too,  were  different  now. 
Their  principal  leaders  taken  away  and  their  headquar 
ters  closed  by  the  police,  the  disorganization  was  com 
plete.  That  spirit  they  had  relied  upon,  that  strange  new 
spirit  of  the  mass  which  they  had  created  by  coming 
together,  was  now  dead — and  each  one  felt  the  weakness 
of  being  alone,  the  weakness  of  his  separate  self.  Blindly 


THE   HARBOR  347 

they  fought  against  their  despair.  I  found  them  packing 
tenement  rooms,  gathering  instinctively  in  search  of  their 
great  friend,  the  crowd. 

But  from  such  gatherings  as  these,  the  weaker,  the 
more  timid  and  the  wiser  kept  away.  Rash  spirits  led 
these  meetings,  and  here  was  the  same  hot  passion  that  I 
had  felt  back  in  the  jail.  These  people  did  not  want 
to  think,  the  time  for  thinking  had  gone  by.  They 
wanted  to  act,  to  do  something  quick.  Their  minds 
were  fiercely  set  on  the  "scabs,"  the  police  and  the 
militia. 

Their  strike  was  not  yet  lost.  Their  friends  and  sym 
pathizers  were  working  hard  that  very  night  to  get  their 
leaders  out  on  bail.  In  Washington  a  House  committee 
was  striving  still  to  compel  arbitration.  Everywhere  the 
more  moderate  spirits  were  drawing  together,  trying  to 
work  out  something  safe. 

But  these  people  did  not  know  this.  They  were  in  their 
tenements,  they  were  scattered  far  apart.  They  only 
knew  how  they  had  been  clubbed,  that  three  had  been 
killed  and  many  more  wounded,  and  that  now  the  troops 
were  here.  And  the  more  fiery  ones  among  them  were 
feeling  only  one  thing  now,  that  when  you  are  hit  you 
must  hit  back,  you  must  show  you're  not  scared,  you 
must  show  you're  a  man. 

And  so  on  the  next  morning,  no  women  and  no  chil 
dren  but  huge,  silent  throngs  of  men  drifted  out  of  the 
tenements  down  to  tne  docks  and  moved  slowly  along  the 
sentry  lines. 

The  chance  to  show  they  were  not  afraid  came  late  in 
the  afternoon.  The  clear,  sweet  call  of  a  bugle  came 
floating  gaily  on  the  air,  then  the  long,  hard  roll  of  drums, 
and  from  their  camp  on  the  Farm  the  troops  came  on  the 
double-quick  up  along  the  waterfront.  ISTow  thousands 
of  strikers  were  running  that  way.  From  the  foot  of  a 
city  street  across  the  wide  open  space  to  a  pier  the  militia 
formed  in  two  double  lines,  each  line  facing  outward. 


348  THE   HARBOR 

Then  down  that  street  came  mounted  police  and  behind 
them  a  score  of  trucks  loaded  with  freight. 

At  first  I  had  hopes  that  the  mass  would  not  move. 
But  out  of  the  silence  came  angry  shouts  and  those  be 
hind  pushed  forward.  Those  in  front  were  pressed  close 
up  to  the  sharp  lines  of  bayonets,  were  prodded  savagely 
by  the  troops.  Militia  youngsters  but  half  trained,  in 
two  thin  lines  opposing  what  appeared  to  them  a  furious 
sea  of  faces,  fists  and  angry  cries — no  wonder  they  were 
nervous.  Bricks  came  flying  from  all  sides  and  even 
heavy  paving-stones,  and  then  a  few  pistol  shots  out  of 
the  mass.  I  saw  a  militia  man  drop  on  one  knee  and 
slowly  topple  over.  I  saw  an  excited  young  officer  shout 
at  his  men  and  wave  his  sword.  I  saw  long  rows  of 
guns  make  quick  rhythmic  movements,  then  level  straight 
out,  and  there  were  two  long  flashes  of  fire. 

Disordered  throngs  were  running  now.  Only  a  few 
men  here  and  there  turned  to  fire  their  pistols  or  to  shout 
back  frenzied,  quivering  oaths.  Behind  them  a  few  sol 
diers  were  still  shooting  without  orders.  Near  the  sand- 
pile  on  which  I  stood  I  saw  a  young  militia  man 
enough  like  that  little  shoe-clerk  to  have  been  his 
brother.  His  face  was  white  and  his  eyes  wild,  he  was 
panting,  pumping  his  lever  and  blindly  firing  shot  after 
shot. 

"God  damn  'em,  slaughter  'em,  slaughter  "em!" 

'An  officer  knocked  up  his  gun. 

That  night  the  waterfront  was  still.  Only  the  long, 
•  slow  moving  line  of  the  figures  of  sentries  was  to  be  seen. 
The  troops  were  back  in  their  camp  on  the  Farm.  Biv 
ouac  fires  were  burning  down  there,  but  up  here  was 
only  a  dark,  empty  space. 

Here  scattered  about  on  the  pavement,  after  the  firing 
had  ceased,  I  had  seen  the  dark  inert  bodies  of  men. 
Most  of  them  had  begun  to  move,  until  fully  half  were 
crawling  about.  They  had  been  picked  up  and  counted, 


THE    HARBOR  349 

Thirty-nine  wounded,  fourteen  dead.     These,  too,  had  all 
been  taken  away. 

From  the  high  steel  dock-sheds  there  came  a  deep, 
harsh  murmur  made  up  of  faint  whistles,  the  rattle  of 
winches,  the  shouts  of  the  foremen,  the  heavy  jar  and 
crash  of  crates.  A  tug  puffed  smoothly  into  a  slip  with 
three  barges  in  her  wake.  I  walked  slowly  out  that  way. 
The  tugmen  and  the  bargemen  talked  in  quiet  voices  as 
they  made  fast  their  craft  to  the  pier.  Below  them  the 
water  was  lapping  and  slapping. 

"The  world's  work  has  been  clogged  up  a  little.  It's  to 
go  on  again  now." 

•  ••••• 

The  next  day  three  heavy  battleships  steamed  slug 
gishly  through  the  Narrows  and  came  to  anchor  in  the 
bay.  When  interviewed  by  reporters,  their  commanders 
were  vastly  amused.  No,  they  said,  the  United  States 
Navy  was  not  governed  as  to  its  movements  by  strikes. 
They  simply  happened  to  be  here  through  orders  issued 
weeks  ago.  But  their  coming  was  featured  in  headlines. 

I  saw  something  else  in  the  papers  that  night,  a  force 
greater  than  all  battleships.  As  a  week  before  I  had  felt 
a  whole  country  in  revolt,  I  felt  now  a  country  of  law  and 
order,  a  whole  nation  of  angry  tradesmen  impatiently  de 
manding  an  end  to  all  this  "foreign  anarchy." 

"We  want  no  more  of  your  strikes,"  it  said.  "None 
of  your  new  crowd  spirit,  none  of  your  wild  talk  and 
dreams !  We  want  no  change  in  this  country  of  ours !" 

The  authorities  obeyed  this  will.  Bail  was  denied  to 
Marsh,  Vasca  and  Joe,  and  for  them  a  speedy  trial  was 
urged.  The  press  now  held  them  responsible  not  only 
for  that  first  negro's  death,  but  for  all  the  deaths  since 
their  arrest.  Let  them  pay  the  full  penalty!  Let  them 
be  made  an  example  of!  Let  this  business  of  anarchy 
be  dealt  with  and  settled  once  and  for  all ! 

The  work  of  crushing  the  strike  went  on.  More  troops 
were  brought  to  the  harbor.  On  the  docks  there  were  not 


350  THE    HARBOR 

i 

only  negroes  now,  thousands  of  immigrant  laborers  were 
brought  from  Ellis  Island  and  put  to  work  at  double  pay, 
and  on  every  incoming  vessel  the  stokers  were  all  kept  on 
board.  Among  the  strikers  there  was  a  break  that  swiftly 
spread  and  became  a  stampede.  And  in  the  following 
week  the  work  of  the  harbor  went  on  as  before,  with  its 
regular  commonplace  weekly  toll  of  a  hundred  killed  and 
injured.  Peace  had  come  again  at  last. 

On  Saturday  morning  of  that  week  I  stood  on  the  deck 
of  a  ferryboat  packed  with  little  commuters  who  waved 
and  cheered  a  huge  ocean  liner  bound  for  Europe.  Lying 
deep  in  the  water,  her  hold  laden  heavy  with  the  products 
of  this  teeming  land,  her  decks  thronged  with  travelers 
with  money  in  their  pockets,  her  band  playing,  her  flags 
streaming  out,  and  over  all  on  the  captain's  bridge  the 
officers  up  there  in  command — she  was  a  mighty  symbol 
of  order  and  prosperity  and  of  that  Efficiency  which  to  me 
had  been  a  religion  for  so  many  years.  We  all  followed 
the  great  ship  with  our  eyes  as,  gathering  headway,  she 
steamed  out  past  the  Statue  of  Liberty  toward  the  battle 
ships  beyond. 

"Well,"  said  an  amused  little  man  close  by  me,  "I 
guess  that'll  be  about  all  from  the  strikers." 

"Oh  my  smiling  little  citizen — you've  only  seen  the 
beginning,"  I  thought. 

What  were  the  strikers  thinking  now,  and  what  would 
they  be  thinking  soon  ?  They  had  wanted  easier  lives, 
they  had  wanted  to  feel  themselves  powers  here.  Caught 
.  up  in  the  tide  of  democracy  now  sweeping  all  around  the 
earth,  they  had  wanted  to  feel  themselves  running  them 
selves  in  all  this  work  they  were  doing.  So  they  had  come 
out  on  strike  and  become  a  crowd,  and  in  the  crowd  they 
had  suddenly  found  such  strength  as  they  never  dreamed 
could  be  theirs.  And  they  would  not  easily  forget.  The 
harbor  was  already  seeing  to  that,  for  already  its  work 
had  gone  on  with  a  rush,  and  all  its  heavy  labor  was 


THE   HARBOR  351 

weighing  down  upon  them — "like  a  million  tons  of  brick 
on  their  chests."  I  remembered  what  Joe  Kramer  had 
said:  "It's  got  so  they  can't  even  breathe  without  think 
ing." 

Was  the  defeat  of  this  one  strike  the  end  ? 

The  grim  battleships  answered,  "Yes,  it  is  the  end." 

But  the  restless  harbor  answered,  "]STo." 

What  change  was  coming  in  my  life  ?  I  did  not  know. 
Of  one  thing  only  I  was  sure.  The  last  of  my  gods, 
Efficiency,  whose  feet  had  stood  firm  on  mechanical  laws 
and  in  whose  head  were  all  the  brains  of  all  the  big  men 
at  the  top,  had  now  come  tottering  crashing  down.  And 
in  its  place  a  huge  new  god,  whose  feet  stood  deep  in 
poverty  and  in  whose  head  were  all  the  dreams  of  all  the 
toilers  of  the  earth,  had  called  to  me  with  one  deep  voice, 
with  one  tremendous  burning  passion  for  the  freedom  of 
mankind. 


BOOK  IV 


BOOK  IV 
CH&PTEK   I 

ONCE  I  saw  the  harbor  in  a  February  storm.  And  in 
the  wind  and  skurrying  snow  I  saw  it  all  together  like 
one  whirling  thing  alive.  But  the  next  morning  the  storm 
had  died  away,  and  a  wind  from  the  south  had  brought 
banks  of  fog  that  moved  sluggishly  low  down  on  the  water 
dividing  the  whole  region  into  many  separate  parts.  And 
from  above,  a  dazzling  sun  shone  down  upon  three  objects 
near  me,  a  ferryboat,  a  puffing  tug,  and  a  tramp  which 
lay  at  anchor,  shone  so  brightly  on  these  three  they  seemed 
alone,  with  nothing  but  mist  all  about  them. 

So  it  was  now  for  a  time  with  me.  The  strike,  which 
had  so  suddenly  drawn  me  into  its  whirling  crowd-life, 
now  as  suddenly  dropped  away.  And  personal  troubles 
piled  one  on  the  other.  In  place  of  that  mass  of  thou 
sands,  I  saw  only  a  few  people  I  loved,  and  I  saw  them  so 
intensely  that  for  a  time  we  were  quite  alone,  with  nothing 
but  mist  all  around  us. 

Sue  sent  for  me  one  morning  and  I  went  over  to  our 
house.  I  was  startled  by  the  change  in  her  face.  It 
looked  not  only  tired,  it  looked  so  disillusioned,  done,  so 
through  with  all  the  absorbing  ideas  and  warm  enthusi 
asms  that  had  given  it  abundant  life. 

"I'm  not  going  to  marry  Joe  Kramer,"  she  said.  "And 
I  want  you  to  tell  him  so." 

I  stared  at  her  blankly. 

355 


356  THE    HARBOR 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said. 

"Are  you  ?"  There  was  just  a  worn  shadow  of  her  old 
smile. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  said  that,"  I  replied.  "My  head's 
rather  dull  this  morning.  All  right,  Sis,  I'll  tell  him." 
Still  I  watched  her  pityingly.  Poor  old  Sue.  What  a 
crash  in  her  life. 

"I'd  like  you  to  tell  him  the  whole  truth,"  my  sister 
went  on  sharply,  "just  why  I've  decided  as  I  have. 
Don't  say  it's  because  of  father.  When  I  wanted  Joe, 
Dad  didn't  count,  he  was  nothing  to  me  but  a  back  num 
ber.  But  I  dorit  want  him  now — Joe,  I  mean — I  don't 
love  him  any  more.  If  I  went  to  him  to-day  in  his  cell 
and  said  I'd  stick  by  him  no  matter  what  happened  be 
cause  he  was  the  man  I  loved — I'd  be  lying — that  wouldn't 
be  me.  The  real  me  is  a  much  smaller  person  than  that. 
I  don't  love  Joe  because  I've  been  scared — because  he's 
in  a  common  jail — waiting  to  be  tried  for  murder."  Her 
face  contracted  slightly.  "I  suppose  it's  the  way  I've 
been  brought  up." 

"But  Sue " 

"Don't  stop  me,  Billy,  let  me  talk!"  And  she  talked 
on  intensely,  so  absorbed  in  this  fierce  impulsive  confes 
sion  that  she  seemed  to  forget  I  was  there.  "I've  been 
thinking  what's  to  become  of  me.  I've  been  thinking 
about  all  the  things  I've  been  in,  and  none  seem  real  any 
longer — I  wanted  a  thrill  and  I  got  it — that's  all.  Then 
I  met  Joe  and  I  got  it  again,  I  got  a  thrill  out  of  all  his 
life  and  the  big  things  it  was  made  of.  I  got  a  great 
thrill  out  of  the  strike.  Don't  you  remember  how  I 
talked  three  weeks  ago  when  you  were  here?  Dad  was 
the  Old  and  I  was  the  New.  I  saw  everything  beginning. 
I  read  Walt  Whitman's  'Open  Road'  and  I  felt  like  Joe's 
'camarado.'  Well,  and  I  kept  on  like  that.  And  like  a 
little  idiot  I  couldn't  keep  it  to  myself,  I  went  and  told 
some  of  my  friends.  That's  what's  really  the  hardest 
now,  what  hurts  the  most — I  told  my  friends.  I  posed  as 


THE   HARBOR  357 

a  young  Joan  of  Arc.  I  was  going  to  marry,  give 
up  everything,  chuck  myself  into  this  fight  for  the 
people,  into  revolution!  Thrills,  I  tell  you,  thrills  and 
thrills! 

"But  then  Joe  got  arrested.  I  knew  he  was  in  a  cell  in 
the  Tombs,  in  Murderers'  Row.  And  that  drove  all  the 
thrills  away.  That  was  real.  Dad  made  it  worse.  He 
talked  about  the  coming  trial,  Sing  Sing  and  the  death 
house  there.  One  morning  he  tried  to  read  to  me  an  ac 
count  of  an  execution.  I  ran  away,  but  I  came  back  and 
read  it  myself,  I  read  all  the  hideous  details  right  up  to 
the  iron  chair.  And  just  because  there  was  a  chance  of 
Joe's  being  like  that,  all  at  once  I  stopped  loving  him. 
Not  just  because  I  was  frightened,  it  wasn't  so  simple  as 
a  scare.  It  was  something  inside  of  me  shuddering,  and 
saying  'how  revolting!'  I  tried  to  shake  it  out  of  me,  I 
tried  to  keep  on  loving  him !  But  I  couldn't  shake  it  out 
of  me !  Joe  had  become — revolting,  too !  It's  because 
of  the  way  I've  been  brought  up  and  because  of  the  way 
I've  always  lived !  I  can't  stand  what's  real — if  it's  ugly ! 
That's  me!" 

She  broke  off  and  looked  down.  I  came  and  sat  beside 
her,  and  took  her  cold,  quivering  hands  in  mine : 

"I  guess  I  am  sorry,  Sue  old  girl " 

"Don't  be,"  she  retorted.  "I'm  too  sorry  for  myself  as 
it  is !  That's  another  part  of  me !"  Again  she  broke  off 
with  a  hard  little  laugh.  "Let's  forget  me  for  a  minute. 
What  has  this  sweet  strike  done  to  you?" 

"I'm  not  sure  yet,"  I  answered.     "Where  is  Dad  ?" 

"Up  in  his  room." 

"Tell  me  about  him,"  I  said.  Sue  drew  an  anxious 
little  breath: 

"Oh  Billy,  he  has  been  getting  so  queer.  It  has  all 
been  such  a  strain  on  his  mind.  Every  day  he  kept  read 
ing  the  news  of  the  strike — and  some  days  he  would  stamp 
and  rage  about  till  I  was  afraid  to  be  with  him.  He  talked 
about  that  death  cell  until  I  thought  that  I'd  go  mad. 


358  THE    HARBOR 

Sometimes  when  we  were  talking  I  thought  that  we  had 
both  gone  mad." 

I  went  upstairs  and  found  him  in  a  chair  by  the  win 
dow.  With  unnatural,  clumsy  motions  he  rose  and  came 
to  meet  me. 

"I'm  all  right,  my  boy."  His  voice  had  a  mum 
bling  quality  and  I  noticed  the  strangeness  in  his  eyes. 
"I'm  all  right.  I'm  glad  to  see  you."  Then  his  face 
clouded  and  hardened  a  little,  and  he  tried  to  speak  to 
me  sternly: 

"I'm  glad  you're  clean  out  of  that  strike  and  its  notions 
— glad  you've  come  to  your  senses,"  he  said.  "You're 
lucky  in  having  such  a  wife.  She's  been  over  here  often 
lately — and  she's  worth  a  dozen  like  you  and  Sue.  Have 
you  seen  Sue?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  she's  all  right." 

I  said  nothing  to  this,  and  he  shot  a  sidelong  look  at 
me: 

"I  had  quite  a  time,  my  boy — I  had  to  keep  right  at 
her."  Another  quick  look.  "I  suppose  she's  told  you  how 
I  went  at  her." 

"Never  mind,  Dad,  it's  over  now." 

"I  had  to  make  her  feel  the  noose,  I  mean  the  chair," 
he  went  on  in  those  thick,  mumbling  tones,  "and  that  she'd 
have  to  choose  between  that  and  a  decent  Christian  home — 
like  the  home  her  mother  had.  She  was  a  wonderful  wom 
an,  your  mother,"  he  wandered  off  abruptly.  "If  she'd 
only  understood  me — seen  what  it  was  I  was  trying  to  do 
— for  American  shipping — Yankee  sails !"  He  sank  down 
in  his  chair  exhausted,  and  I  noticed  he  was  breathing 
hard.  "I'm  all  right,  my  boy,  I'm  quite  all  right " 

With  a  sudden  rush  of  pity  and  of  love  and  deep  alarm, 
I  bent  gently  over  him: 

"Of  course  you  are — why  Dad,  old  boy — just  take  it 
easy — quiet,  you  know — we're  going  t">  pull  right  out  of 
this " 


THE    HARBOR  359 

The  tears  welled  suddenly  up  in  his  eyes : 
"I'm  lonely,  boy — I'm  glad  you're  here!" 
Presently  I  went  down  to  Sue: 
"When  is  the  doctor  coming  next?" 
"ISTot  till  this  afternoon,"  she  said. 
"I'll  be  home  to-night  for  supper.    Phone  me  what  he 
says." 

"All  right — where  are  you  going  now  ?    To  Joe  ?" 

"Yes,  Sis,"  I  said. 

She  turned  and  went  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  Tombs,  when  Joe  was  brought  out  to  me,  I  saw 
that  he,  too,  had  been  through  a  deep  change.  He  had 
been  quiet  enough  all  through  the  strike,  except  for  that 
one  big  speech  of  his — but  he  had  been  tensely  quiet. 
ISTow  the  tension  appeared  to  be  gone.  He  seemed  wrapped 
up  in  thoughts  of  his  own. 

"Have  you  seen  Sue  ?"  he  asked  me  at  once. 

"Yes  Joe,  I've  just  been  with  her." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

I  began  to  tell  him. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  interrupted  me.  "I  made  up  iny  mind 
to  this  the  first  night  I  spent  here  in  my  cell.  It  couldn't 
have  happened,  it  wouldn't  have  worked.  Tell  her  I 
understand  all  about  it,  tell  her  that  I'm  sure  she's  right. 
Tell  her — it's  funny  but  it's  true — tell  her  this  infernal 
pen  has  worked  the  same  way  on  me  as  on  her.  I  mean 
it  has  made  me  not  want  her  now.  I  feel  sorry  for  her 
and  that's  all — deeply  and  infernally  sorry.  I  was  a  fool 
to  have  let  her  into  it.  My  only  excuse  for  being  so  blind 
was  that  damned  fever  that  left  me  so  weak.  At  any 
other  time  I  would  have  seen  what  a  farce  it  was.  I 
wasn't  booked  for  a  life  like  that.  It  doesn't  fit  in  with 
this  job  of  mine."  He  smiled  a  little  bitterly.  "I  used 
to  say,"  he  continued,  "that  if  I  had  time  I'd  like  to 
do  something  yellow  enough  so  that  I'd  be  cut  off  for 
life  from  any  chance  of  church  bells.  And  I  guess  I've 


360  THE    HARBOR 

done  it  this  time — no  danger  of  getting  respectable 
now." 

"How  do  you  look  at  this,  Joe  ?"  I  asked  him.  "What 
do  you  think  they'll  do  to  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  Again  he  smiled  slightly  and  wearily. 
"And  I  can't  say  I  care  a  damn.  I  feel  like  those  fellows 
over  in  Russia,  the  revolutionist  chaps  I  met,  who  didn't 
know  if  they'd  croak  in  a  month  and  didn't  care  one  way 
or  the  other.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  added,  "I 
think  this  time  it's  mainly  bluff.  They  wanted  to  get  us 
away  from  the  crowd  and  keep  us  away  while  they  broke 
the  strike.  Now  that  it's  over  you'll  probably  find  they'll 
let  us  all  off  with  light  sentences.  Of  course  the  murder 
charge  can't  hold.  ...  By  the  way,"  he  added,  smiling, 
"I  hear  they  got  you,  too." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  smiling  back.  "The  Judge  fined 
me  ten  dollars  and  let  me  go.  He  said  he  hoped  this 
would  be  a  lesson." 

Joe  looked  at  me  curiously: 

"How  much  of  a  lesson,  Kid,  do  you  think  this  strike 
has  been  to  you  ?" 

"Quite  a  big  one,  Joe,"  I  said. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"I  haven't  decided.'' 

"How  is  Eleanore  taking  it  all  ?" 

"She's  not  saying  much  and  neither  am  I.  We're  both 
doing  some  thinking  before  we  talk." 

"You're  a  quiet  pair,"  J.  K.  remarked.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you'd  nose  along  quite  a  distance  before  you  get 
through — I  mean  in  our  direction." 

"That's  what  we're  thinking  about,"  I  replied.  Again 
he  turned  to  me  curiously : 

"You  two  can  think  together — without  talking — can't 
you?" 

"Yes — sometimes  we  can." 

"I  never  got  that  far  with  Sue."  All  at  once  he  came 
closer,  his  whole  manner  changed:  "Say,  Bill — tell  her 


THE   HARBOR  361 

all  I've  said — will  you?  I'm  sorry!  Honest  Injun! 
Make  her  feel  how  damnably  scrry  I  am  that  I  ever  let 
her  in  for  this!" 

When  I  left  him  I  went  off  for  a  walk,  for  I  wanted  to 
be  alone  awhile.  I  wondered  just  how  sure  Joe  felt 
about  his  fast  approaching  trial.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
had  a  good  chance  of  going  where  Sue  had  pictured  him. 


CHAPTER   II 

THAT  evening  I  learned  that  my  father  was  worse,  and 
I  spent  the  next  day  by  his  bedside.  He  had  had  a  stroke 
in  the  morning  and  was  not  expected  to  live  through  the 
night. 

I  found  him  mumbling  fast  to  himself  and  making 
slight,  restless  efforts  to  move.  At  last  he  grew  quiet, 
and  presently  his  half -open  gnarled  right  hand  came  grop 
ing  out  over  the  covers.  I  took  it  in  mine,  and  at  once  I 
felt  it  close  on  mine  with  a  quick,  convulsive  strength. 
His  hand  was  moist,  his  eyes  saw  nothing.  I  sat  there 
thus  for  a  long  time.  Then  suddenly, 

"Good  boy,"  he  muttered  thickly.  "Good  boy — good — 
always  good  to  your  mother!"  He  kept  repeating  this 
over  and  over,  with  pauses  between,  then  again  with  an 
effort,  fiercely,  as  though  from  a  distance  his  mind  were 
set  on  getting  this  message  over  to  me,  over  from  an  age 
that  was  dying  into  an  age  that  was  coming  to  life,  a  last 
good-by  to  hold  me  back. 

Soon  he  was  only  mumbling  figures,  names  of  ships  and 
distant  ports,  freight  consignments.  Now  and  then  his 
finger  would  go  to  his  lips,  as  he  turned  phantom  pages  in 
feverish  haste.  Again,  in  gasping  whispers,  he  would 
break  out  into  arguments  for  the  protection  of  Yankee 
sails. 

"Protection!"  he  would  whisper.  "Damn  fools  not  to 
see  it!  Discriminating  tariffs!  Subsidies!  A  Navy! 
.  .  .  Don't  forget  the  Navy!  Remember  War  of  1812! 
.  .  .  Nothing  without  fighting!" 

"Nothing  without  fighting."  He  had  been  learning 
this  all  his  life — and  after  he  had  said  it  now,  he  stopped 

362 


THE    HARBOR  363 

speaking  and  grew  still.  Little  by  little  his  movements 
grew  weaker.  Finally  he  lay  like  a  log,  and  the  doctor 
said  he  would  be  so  until  dead. 

I  went  up  to  my  old  bedroom  and  sat  down  by  the  open 
window.  It  was  a  beautiful  night.  From  the  garden 
below,  where  long  ago  I  had  felt  such  shivers  over  the 
ocean  and  heathen  lands,  a  graceful  poplar  rose.  Behind 
it  from  the  river  the  huge,  dim  funnel  of  a  steamer  rose 
over  the  roof  of  the  warehouse.  Overhead  to  the  right 
swept  the  Great  Bridge  of  my  childhood.  But  behind  it 
were  other  bridges  now,  and  off  across  the  river  the  build 
ings  of  Manhattan  loomed  in  loftier  masses  to  their  apex 
in  the  tower  of  lights.  How  changed  it  all  was  since  I 
was  a  boy.  And  yet  how  like.  On  the  harbor  still  the 
hurrying  lights,  yellow,  blue  and  green  and  red.  The 
same  deep,  restless  hum  of  labor.  And  from  the  water 
front  below  the  same  puffs  and  coughs  of  engines,  the 
same  sharp  toots  and  treble  pantings,  the  same  raucous 
whine  of  wheels. 

There  came  a  rough  salt  breeze  from  the  sea,  and  it 
made  me  think  of  billowy  sails  and  the  days  of  my  father's 
boundless  youth,  and  of  the  harbor  of  long  ago  that  had 
so  gripped  and  molded  him — as  I  felt  mine  now  mold 
ing  me.  And  for  what  ?  I  asked.  To  what  were  we  both 
adventuring — out  of  these  little  harbors  of  ours  ? 

Toward  dawn  a  tramp  came  down  the  river.  Dimly  as 
she  passed  below  I  could  see  how  old  she  was,  how  worn 
and  battered  by  the  waves.  A  desolate  and  lonely  craft, 
the  smoke  draggled  out  of  her  funnel.  I  watched  her 
steam  into  the  Upper  Bay  and  pass  around  Governor's 
Island.  I  watched  till  in  the  first  raw  light  of  day  I 
could  see  only  her  smoke  through  the  Narrows.  Then 
even  this  became  but  a  blur,  which  crept  away  in  that 
strange  dawn  light  out  into  the  wide  ocean. 

A  few  hours  later  my  father  died. 

One  by  one,  from  different  parts  of  the  port,  the  queer 
est  old  men  came  into  our  house  on  the  day  of  my  father's 


364  THE    HARBOR 

funeral — men  who  still  believed  in  American  ships,  still 
thrilled  to  the  dream  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  wherever 
there  is  an  ocean  breeze;  men  who  still  believed  in  ships 
that  had  sails  and  moved  along  with  the  force  of  the 
winds ;  who  still  believed  that  cabin  boys  could  rise  by  the 
sheer  force  of  their  wills  to  be  powers  in  the  ocean  world ; 
men  who  had  for  the  common  crowd  only  the  iron  dis 
cipline,  the  old  brute  tyranny  of  the  sea.  These  strange 
old  men  stood  with  their  white  heads  bowed,  a  little  group, 
looking  down  into  my  father's  grave. 

"He  was  a  magnificent  fighter,"  I  heard  one  of  them 
say  as  we  left.  "He  wrecked  his  own  business  for  what 
he  believed  in.  How  many  of  us  would  go  that  far  ?" 

From  the  grave  Sue  came  to  our  apartment.  Eleanore 
had  packed  her  trunk. 

"Sue  must  keep  out  of  that  dreary  old  house,"  she  told 
me.  "Luckily  she  has  a  friend  out  of  town  whom  she's 
going  to  visit.  When  she  comes  back  we  must  have  the 
house  closed,  and  I  hope  she'll  live  with  us  for  a  while." 

We  talked  of  this  that  evening,  for  Sue  seemed  to  want 
to  talk.  We  stayed  up  until  late  and  planned  and  planned. 
Many  different  kinds  of  work  for  Sue  were  taken  up  and 
discussed  by  us  all.  She  surprised  me  by  the  brave  effort 
she  made. 

"I've  got  to  want  something — that's  sure,"  she  said. 
"I  can't  just  yet.  I've  wanted  so  many  things  so  hard, 
one  after  the  other  for  nearly  eight  years,  that  now  I  feel 
as  though  I'd  used  up  all  the  wanting  that  I've  got.  But 
of  course  I  haven't.  If  I  have  I'm  a  back  number — and 
I'd  a  great  deal  rather  be  dead.  So  don't  you  people 
worry.  Depend  upon  it,  in  less  than  a  year  I'll  be  all 
wrapped  up  in  something  new.  I'll  be  tremendously  en 
thused,"  she  ended,  smiling  wearily. 

She  agreed  with  me  that  the  house  be  sold,  and  after 
she  had  left  us  I  made  every  effort  to  sell  it  at  once.  I 
found  it  was  heavily  mortgaged  now,  but  when  at  last  I 


THE    HARBOR  365 

made  a  sale  there  was  enough  to  clear  off  all  debts  and 
leave  about  two  thousand  dollars  for  Sue.  She  would 
have  at  least  something  to  start  on. 

As  we  set  about  to  dismantle  the  house,  various  things 
thickly  covered  with  dust  came  out  of  closets,  drawers  and 
shelves.  And  these  objects  brought  near  again  to  me  my 
mother's  life  and  that  hunger  of  hers  for  the  things  that 
were  "fine,"  that  hospitable  door  which  had  waited  for 
friends  from  the  handsome  old  homes  all  around  us.  These 
homes  all  along  the  street  had  now  lost  their  quiet  dig 
nity.  Some  were  empty  and  marked  for  sale,  others  that 
had  already  been  sold  were  cheerless  boarding  houses. 
The  most  handsome  home  of  all,  with  its  ample  yard 
where  I  used  to  play,  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  rose  an 
apartment  building  which  made  the  old  houses  all  seem 
dwarfs. 

Her  world  and  his  were  both  slipping  away.  Her  life 
and  his,  her  creed  and  his,  were  little  now  but  memories 
— memories  which  in  Sue  and  in  me  must  take  their 
chance  with  the  warm,  new  feelings,  the  cravings,  hopes, 
loves,  doubts  and  dreams  of  this  absorbing  world  of  our 
own.  For  the  harbor  was  still  molding  lives. 

How  anxious  Eleanore  seemed  to  be  through,  I  thought 
a  little  bitterly. 


CHAPTEK   HI 

BUT  Eleanore  had  good  reason.  "When  at  last  the 
house  had  been  closed,  back  at  home  one  evening  she  told 
me  what  she  had  known  for  weeks  but  had  kept  to  herself 
until  I  should  be  free  from  other  things.  We  were  to 
have  another  child. 

The  news  was  a  shock,  it  frightened  me.  "Where's  the 
money  to  come  from?"  flashed  into  my  mind.  In  an  in 
stant  it  had  passed  and  I  was  holding  her  tight  in  my 
arms.  But  she  must  have  caught  that  look  in  my  face, 
for  I  could  feel  her  trembling. 

"The  same  funny  old  world,  my  dearest  one,"  she 
whispered,  "with  its  same  old  trick  of  starting  out.  But 
oh  my  dear,  in  spite  of  it  all — or  because  of  it  all — how 
good  it  is  to  be  alive!  More  than  ever — a  hundred 
times !" 

"You  darling  girl,"  I  whispered  back,  "you're  the 
bravest  one  of  all!" 

Her  father  came  to  us  the  next  night,  and  after  Elea 
nore  went  to  bed  he  and  I  talked  long  together.  He  looked 
worn  and  tired,  but  the  same  quiet  affection  was  in  his. 
eyes. 

"Let's  see  where  we  are,"  he  said,  "and  what  we've 
got  to  go  on.  To  begin  with,  thank  God,  you  and  I  are 
still  friends.  Then  there's  Eleanore  and  your  small  son 
and  the  smaller  one  that's  coming.  We're  just  starting  in 
on  a  long,  hot  summer.  She  must  of  course  be  got  out  of 
town.  How  much  have  you  in  the  bank  ?" 

"Thirty-seven  dollars,"  I  said. 

He  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  cigar. 

366 


THE   HARBOR  367 

"You've  never  yet  taken  money  from  me,"  he  continued, 
after  a  moment.  "Still,  you'd  do  it  if  you  had  to — be 
cause  this  is  our  affair.  But  unluckily,  just  at  present, 
I'm  nearly  as  high  and  dry  as  yourself.  The  men  who 
have  backed  my  harbor  work  have  lost  so  heavily  in  the 
strike  that  they  feel  now  they  must  recoup.  I've  already 
proposed  to  them  a  plan  which  they  have  as  good  as  ac 
cepted.  They'll  provide  enough  money  to  pay  the  rent 
of  a  smaller  office.  I  can  borrow  enough  to  pay  half  my 
men.  The  rest  I'll  have  to  let  go  for  a  time." 

"And  your  salary  ?"  I  ventured. 

"Is  left  out,"  he  answered.  "I  mean  it  is  if  I  stay  here. 
I  want  to  stay  here,  I  want  to  put  through  this  job  if  I 
can,  you  see  it  has  taken  six  years  of  my  life.  And  be 
sides,"  he  added  wistfully,  "in  a  very  few  weeks  they'll 
finish  the  work  at  Panama — and  the  ships  of  the  world 
will  begin  to  crowd  into  a  harbor  that  isn't  ready  here — 
we  haven't  even  completed  our  plans.  It's  not  a  good  time 
to  stop  our  work.  But  of  course  if  you  and  Eleanore  get 
into  a  hole  that  is  serious — as  I  said  before  and  you'll 
agree,  you'd  have  to  let  me  help  you — even  if  to  do  it  I 
should  have  to  give  up  my  work  for  a  while  and  take  up 
something  that  will  pay." 

"No  sir!" 

"Yes  sir,"  he  replied.  "Unless  you  can  earn  enough 
money  yourself." 

We  looked  at  each  other  a  moment. 

"You  know  how  to  bring  pressure,  don't  you?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  I'm  bringing  pressure.  I  want  to  see  you  go  on 
as  before." 

"That  won't  be  easy,"  I  remarked. 

"Shall  we  talk  it  over  a  little  ?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Since  that  talk  we  had  together 
the  day  Eleanore's  first  child  was  born,  what  a  splendid 
start  you  made  in  your  writing.  You  were  not  only  earn 
ing  big  pay,  you  were  doing  fine  work,  work  that  was 


368  THE    HARBOR 

leading  somewhere.  I  could  see  you  learning  to  use  your 
tools,  getting  a  broad,  sane  view  of  life — and  of  yourself 
— training  yourself  and  building  yourself.  You  were 
right  on  the  threshold  of  big  results.  But  then  your 
friend  Kramer  came  along.  He  had  not  built  himself, 
he  had  chucked  himself  over,  neglected  himself,  his  health 
included.  So  he  took  typhoid  and  came  to  your  home. 
His  being  there  was  a  drain  on  your  pocket  and  a  heavy 
strain  on  your  nerves.  He  got  you  unsettled.  Then  came 
the  strike.  And  what  has  it  done?  It  has  taken  your 
time,  health,  money.  It  has  left  two  good  workmen 
stranded — you  and  me.  And  I  don't  see  that  it's  done 
the  crowd  any  good.  What  has  the  strike  given  you  in 
return  for  all  it  has  taken  away?" 

"A  deeper  view  of  life,"  I  said.  "I  saw  something  in 
that  strike  so  much  bigger  than  Marsh  or  Joe  or  that 
crude  organization  of  theirs — something  deep  down  in 
the  people  themselves  that  rises  up  out  of  each  one  of  them 
the  minute  they  get  together.  And  I  believe  that  power 
has  such  possibilities  that  when  it  comes  into  full  life  not 
all  the  police  and  battleships  and  armies  on  earth  can 
stop  it." 

The  look  in  Dillon's  eyes  was  more  anxious  than  im 
patient. 

"Billy,"  he  said,  "I've  lived  a  good  deal  closer  than  you 
have  to  the  big  jobs  of  this  world.  And  I  know  those  jobs 
are  to  get  still  bigger,  even  more  complex.  They're  to 
require  even  bigger  men."  I  smiled  a  bit  impatiently. 

"Still  the  one  man  in  a  million,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Dillon,  "his  day  isn't  over,  it  has  only  just 
begun.  He  may  have  his  bad  points — I'll  admit  he  has — . 
but  compared  to  all  the  little  men  his  vision  is  wide  and 
it  goes  deep.  And  if  they'll  only  leave  him  alone  and  give 
him  a  chance,  he'll  take  me  and  the  other  engineers,  and 
the  chemists  and  doctors  and  lawyers,  and  he'll  make  a 
world — he's  doing  it  now — where  ignorance  and  poverty 
will  in  time  be  wiped  completely  out." 


THE    HARBOR  36£ 

"They're  not  going  to  leave  him  alone,"  I  said.  "I'm 
sure  of  that  now.  Whether  he  grafts  or  whether  he's 
honest  won't  make  any  difference.  The  crowd  is  going 
to  pull  him  down.  Because  it's  not  democracy.  The 
trouble  with  all  your  big  men  at  the  top  is  that  they're 
trying  to  do  for  the  crowd  what  the  crowd  wants  to  do 
for  itself.  And  it  may  not  do  it  half  so  well — but  all  the 
time  it  will  be  learning — gathering  closer  every  year — 
and  getting  a  spirit  compared  to  which  your  whole  clean 
clear  efficiency  world  is  only  cold  and  empty !" 

He  must  have  caught  the  look  in  my  eyes. 

"You're  thinking  that  I'm  getting  old,"  he  said  softly. 
"I  and  all  the  men  like  me  who  have  been  building  up  this 
country.  You're  thinking  that  we're  all  following  on 
after  your  father  into  the  past."  As  I  looked  back  I  felt 
suddenly  humble.  Dillon's  voice  grew  appealing  and 
kind.  "But  you  belong  with  us,  Billy,"  he  said.  "It 
was  under  us  you  won  your  start.  And  what  I  want  now," 
he  added,  "is  not  only  for  Eleanore's  sake,  but  your  own. 
I  want  you  to  try  to  write  again  about  all  the  work  we  are 
doing  and  see  what  it  will  do  for  you.  Why  not  give  it 
another  chance  ?  You're  not  afraid  of  it,  are  you  ?" 

"No,"  I  said^  "I'm  not  afraid — and  I'll  give  it  another 
chance  if  you  like — I  don't  want  to  be  narrow  about  it, 
God  knows.  But  before  I  tackle  anything  else  I'll  finish 
my  story  of  the  strike." 

"All  right,"  he  agreed.  "That's  all  I  ask.  Now  sup 
pose  you  take  Eleanore  up  to  the  mountains  and  write 
your  strike  article  up  there.  Let  me  loan  you  a  little  just 
at  the  start." 

"How  much  money  have  you  in  the  bank  ?" 

"Enough  to  send  Eleanore  where  she  belongs." 

"Eleanore  belongs  right  here,"  said  a  voice  from  the 
other  room,  and  presently  Eleanore  appeared.  She  sur 
veyed  us  both  with  a  scorn  in  her  eyes  that  made  us  quake 
a  little.  "I  never  heard,"  she  went  on  calmly,  "of  any 
thing  quite  so  idiotic.  Go  home,  Dad,  and  go  to  bed,  and 


370  THE   HAKBOR 

please  drop  this  insane  idea  that  I'm  afraid  of  July  in 
New  York,  or  of  August  or  September.  Do  you  know 
what  you're  going  to  do  to-morrow,  both  of  you  poor  fool 
ish  boys  ?  You're  going  sensibly  to  work  and  worry  about 
nothing  at  all.  And  to-morrow  night  we're  all  three  of  us 
going  to  forget  how  it  feels  to  work  or  think,  and  get  on 
an  open  trolley  and  go  down  and  hear  Harry  Lauder. 
Thank  Heaven  he  happens  to  be  in  town.  To  hear  you 
talk  you'd  think  the  whole  American  people  had  forgotten 
how  to  laugh. 

"Now  Billy,"  she  ended  smoothly,  "go  to  the  icebox 
and  get  two  bottles  of  nice  cool  beer — and  make  me  a  tall 
glass  of  lemonade.  And  don't  use  too  much  sugar." 


CHAPTEE   IV 

THE  next  day  and  the  next  evening  Eleanore's  program 
was  carried  out.  But  after  that  night  the  laughing 
stopped.  For  Joe  Kramer  was  coming  to  trial. 

I  had  not  seen  Joe  for  over  two  weeks,  and  I  had 
taken  his  view  of  his  case,  that  there  was  no  serious  dan 
ger.  But  now  I  learned  from  a  good  source  that  Joe  and 
both  his  colleagues  were  to  be  brought  to  trial  at  once, 
while  the  public  feeling  was  still  hot  against  them.  As  the 
time  of  the  trials  drew  near  every  paper  in  town  took  up 
the  cry.  Let  these  men  be  settled  once  and  for  all,  they 
demanded.  Let  them  not  be  set  free  for  other  strikes, 
for  wholesale  murder  and  pillage.  Let  them  pay  the  full 
penalty  for  their  crimes ! 

In  the  face  of  this  storm,  I  found  myself  on  Joe's  de 
fense  committee,  the  best  part  of  my  time  each  day  and 
evening  taken  up  with  raising  money,  helping  to  find 
witnesses  and  doing  the  press  work  for  parades  and  big- 
mass  meetings  of  labor. 

Through  this  work,  in  odd  hours,  I  finished  my  story 
of  the  strike.  It  all  came  back  to  me  vividly  now  and  I 
tried  to  tell  what  I  had  seen.  I  took  it  to  my  editor. 

"Print  that?"  he  said  when  he'd  read  it.  "You're 
mad." 

"It's  the  truth,"  I  remarked. 

"As  you  see  it,"  he  said.  "And  you've  seen  it  only 
from  one  side.  If  this  story  had  been  written  and  signed 
by  Marsh  or  your  friend  Kramer,  we  might  have  run  it, 
with  a  reply  from  the  companies.  But  I  don't  want  to 
see  you  stand  for  this — in  our  magazine  or  anywhere  else 
— it  means  too  much  to  you  as  a  writer.  Look  out,  my 

371 


372  THE    HARBOR 

boy,"  he  added,  with  a  return  to  the  old  brusque  kindli 
ness  which  he  had  always  shown  me  in  the  years  I  had 
worked  under  him.  "We  think  a  lot  of  you  in  this  office. 
For  God's  sake  don't  lose  your  head.  Don't  be  one  more 
good  reporter  spoiled." 

I  took  my  story  of  the  strike  to  every  editor  I  knew, 
and  it  was  rejected  by  each  in  turn.  They  thought  it  all 
on  the  side  of  the  crowd,  an  open  plea  for  revolution. 
Then  I  took  it  to  Joe  in  the  Tombs. 

"Will  you  sign  this,  Joe?"  I  asked,  when  he  had 
read  it. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "It's  too  damn  mild.  You've  given 
too  much  to  the  other  side.  All  these  bouquets  to  efficiency 
and  all  this  about  the  weak  points  of  the  crowd.  The 
average  stoker  reading  this  would  think  that  the  revolu 
tion  won't  come  till  we  are  all  white-haired." 

"I  don't  believe  it  will,"  I  said. 

"I  know  you  don't.  That's  why  you're  no  good  to  us," 
he  said.  "We  want  our  stuff  written  by  men  who  are 
sure  that  a  big  revolution  is  just  ahead,  men  who  are  cer 
tain  that  a  strike,  to  take  in  half  the  civilized  world,  is 
coming  in  the  next  ten  years," 

"I  don't  believe  that." 

"I  know.  You  can't.  You're  still  too  soaked  in  the 
point  of  view  of  your  efficiency  father-in-law." 

"So  you  don't  feel  you  can  sign  this  ?" 

"No." 

That  day  I  sent  my  story  to  a  small  magazine  in  New 
England,  which  from  the  time  of  the  Civil  War  had  re 
tained  its  traditions  of  breadth  of  view.  Within  a  week 
the  editor  wrote  that  he  would  be  glad  to  publish  it.  "Our 
modest  honorarium  will  follow  shortly,"  he  said  at  the 
end.  The  modest  honorarium  did.  Meanwhile  I  had 
sent  him  a  sketch  of  Nora  Ganey  which  I  had  written  just 
after  the  strike.  I  received  a  letter  equally  kind,  and 
another  honorarium.  I  began  to  see  a  future  of  modest 
honoraria. 


THE   HARBOR  373 

In  the  meantime,  to  meet  our  expenses  at  home,  I  had 
borrowed  money  and  given  my  note.  And  the  note  would 
soon  fall  due.  Those  were  far  from  pleasant  days.  On 
the  one  side  Joe  in  his  cell  waiting  to  be  tried  for  his  life ; 
on  the  other,  Eleanore  at  home  waiting  for  a  new  life  to 
be  born.  Ey  a  lucky  chance  for  me,  Joe's  trial  was  again 
postponed,  so  I  could  return  to  my  own  affairs.  I  had  to 
have  some  money  quick.  I  went  back  to  my  magazine 
editor  and  asked  for  a  job  in  his  office. 

"I'm  ready  now  to  be  sane,"  I  said. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied.  "I'll  give  you  a  steady 
routine  job  where  you  can  grind  till  you  get  yourself 
right." 

"Till  I  get  back  where  I  was,  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  can,"  he  answered. 

I  went  for  a  walk  that  afternoon  to  think  over  the 
proposition  he'd  made. 

"I  have  seen  three  harbors,"  I  said  to  myself.  "My 
father's  harbor  which  is  now  dead,  Dillon's  harbor  of  big 
companies  which  is  very  much  alive,  and  Joe  Kramer's 
harbor  which  is  struggling  to  be  born.  It's  an  interesting 
age  to  live  in.  I  should  like  to  write  the  truth  as  I  see  it 
about  each  kind  of  harbor.  But  I  need  the  money — my 
wife  is  going  to  have  a  child.  So  I'll  take  that  steady 
position  and  try  to  grind  part  of  the  truth  away." 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  Eleanore  asked  when  I 
came  home.  "You  look  like  a  ghost." 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied.     "I've  been  getting  a  job." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

I  told  her  part.  She  went  and  got  her  sewing,  and 
settled  herself  comfortably  for  a  quiet  evening's  work. 
Eleanore  loved  baby  clothes. 

"Now  begin  again  and  tell  me  all,"  she  ordered.  And 
she  persisted  until  I  did. 

"It  won't  do,"  she  said,  when  I  had  finished. 

"It  will  do,"  I  replied  decidedly.     "It's  the  best  thing 


374  THE    HARBOR 

in  sight.  It  will  see  us  through  till  the  baby  is  born. 
After  all,  it's  only  for  a  year." 

"It's  a  mighty  important  year  for  you,  my  love,"  said 
Eleanore.  She  thoughtfully  held  up  and  surveyed  a  tiny 
infant's  nightgown.  "If  you  do  this  you'll  be  giving  up. 
It's  not  writing  your  best.  It's  giving  up  what  you  think 
is  the  truth.  Anol  that's  a  bad  habit  to  get  into." 

"It's  settled  now.     Please  leave  it  alone." 

"Oh  very  well,"  she  said  placidly.  "Let's  talk  of  what 
I've  been  doing." 

"What  you've  been  doing?" 

"Precisely.  I've  taken  a  little  apartment  downtown, 
over  by  the  river.  The  rent  is  twenty-eight  dollars  a 
month.  It's  on  the  top  floor  and  has  plenty  of  air,  and 
there's  a  nice  roof  for  hot  summer  evenings.  You're  to 
carry  two  wicker  chairs  up  there  each  night  after  supper." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  I  rejoined  indignantly. 
"You're  going  to  pack  up  at  once  and  go  to  the  mountains ! 
And  when  you  come  back  you're  coming  right  here !" 

"Oh  no  I'm  not,"  she  answered. 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,  Eleanore !  Think  of  moving  out  of 
here  now !  In  your  condition !" 

"It's  better  than  moving  out  of  your  work.  Dad  has 
kept  right  on  with  his,  even  when  they  stopped  his  pay. 
Well,  now  they've  stopped  your  pay,  that's  all,  and  we've 
got  to  do  the  best  we  can.  We've  simply  got  to  live  for  a 
while  on  modest  honorariums.  Now  don't  talk,  wait  till 
I  get  through.  You've  got  to  work  harder  than  ever  be 
fore  but  for  much  less  money.  But  with  less  money  than 
before  we're  going  to  be  happier  than  we've  ever  been  in 
all  our  lives.  And  you  can't  do  a  thing  to  stop  it.  If  you 
do  take  that  office  work  and  bring  a  lot  of  money  home,  do 
you  know  what  I'll  do  ?  I'll  move  to  that  little  flat  just 
the  same,  and  all  the  extra  money  you  bring  will  go  to 
Mrs.  Bealey." 

"Who  in  God's  name  is  Mrs.  Bealey  ?" 

"One  of  my  oldest  charity  cases.     She  was  here  this 


THE   HARBOR  375 

afternoon.  The  trouble  with  you  is,  my  dear,"  my  wife 
continued  smoothly,  "that  you've  been  so  wrapped  up  in 
your  own  little  changes  you  haven't  given  a  thought  tp 
mine.  Well,  I've  done  some  changing,  too.  Every  time 
that  Sue  or  you  have  taken  up  a  new  idea  I've  taken  up  a 
Mrs.  Bealey.  I  did  the  same  thing  in  the  strike.  I  went 
with  ISTora  Ganey  into  the  very  poorest  of  all  the  tene 
ments  down  by  the  docks.  I  saw  the  very  worst  of  it  all 
— and  I  tried  to  do  what  I  could  to  help.  But  I  felt  like 
a  drop  in  the  ocean.  And  that's  how  I've  changed.  Things 
are  so  wrong  in  the  tenements  that  big  reforms  are  needed. 
I  don't  know  what  they  are  and  I'm  not  sure  anyone  else 
does.  But  I'm  sure  that  if  any  reforms  worth  while  are 
to  be  made,  we've  got  to  see  just  where  we  are.  And  that 
means  that  quite  a  number  of  people — you  for  instance — 
have  got  to  tell  the  truth  exactly  as  they  see  it.  So  I'd 
rather  put  our  money  in  that  and  let  old  Mrs.  Bealey  for 
get  our  address.  That's  another  reason  for  moving. 

"There's  nothing  noble  about  it  at  all,"  she  said  as  she 
threaded  her  needle.  "I  mean  to  be  perfectly  comfortable. 
I  saw  this  coming  long  ago,  and  since  the  strike  was  over 
I've  spent  weeks  picking  out  a  nice  place  where  we  can  get 
the  most  for  our  money.  About  thirty  thousand  babies, 
I'm  told,  are  to  be  born  in  the  city  this  summer — and 
their  mothers  aren't  going  first  to  the  mountains  or  even 
for  a  walk  in  the  Park.  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  be 
one.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  won't  be  one,  my  baby  won't 
be  born  until  Fall,  and  I'll  have  a  clean,  comfortable  flat 
with  one  maid  instead  of  a  dirty  tenement  with  all  the 
cooking  and  washing  to  do.  You'll  probably  find  maga 
zines  who'll  pay  enough  honorariums  to  make  a  hundred 
dollars  a  month,  which  is  just  about  three  times  as  much 
as  Mrs.  Bealey  lives  on.  So  that's  settled  and  we  move 
this  week." 

We  moved  that  week. 


CHAPTER   V 

ONE  night  about  a  month  later,  when  we  had  ensconced 
ourselves  for  the  evening  out  on  the  roof  of  our  new  home, 
where  the  summer's  night  was  cooled  by  a  slight  breeze 
from  the  river,  our  maid  came  up  and  told  me  there  was 
a  strange  gentleman  below.  I  went  down  and  brought 
him  up,  I  was  deeply  pleased  and  excited.  For  he  was 
the  English  novelist  whom  I  most  admired  these  days. 
He  had  come  to  me  during  the  strike  and  had  been  deeply 
interested  in  the  great  crowd  spirit  I  had  found.  He  was 
going  back  to  England  now. 

"I'm  curious,"  he  told  me,  "to  see  how  much  your 
striker  friends  have  kept  of  what  they  got  in  the  strike — 
what  new  ideas  and  points  of  view.  How  much  are  they 
really  changed  ?  That,  I  should  think,  is  by  far  the  most 
valuable  part  of  it  all." 

"It's  just  what  I've  been  trying  to  find  out  for  myself /' 
I  replied. 

"Eeally  ?    Will  you  tell  me  ?" 

I  told  him  how  on  docks,  on  tugs  and  barges,  in  barrooms 
and  in  tenements,  I  was  having  talks  with  various  types 
of  men  who  had  been  strikers,  how  I  was  finding  some 
dull  and  hopeless,  others  bitter,  but  more  who  simply  felt 
that  they  had  bungled  this  first  attempt  and  were  already 
looking  forward  to  more  and  greater  struggles.  The  so 
cialists  among  them  were  already  hard  at  work,  urging 
them  to  carry  their  strike  on  into  the  political  field,  vote 
together  in  one  solid  mass  and  build  up  a  government  all 
their  own.  Through  this  ceaseless  ferment  I  had  gone  in 
search  of  significant  characters,  incidents,  new  points  of 
view.  I  was  writing  brief  sketches  of  it  all. 

'376 


THE   HAKBOR  377 

"How  did  you  feel  about  all  this,"  the  Englishman 
asked,  "before  you  were  drawn  into  the  strike?"  And 
turning  from  me  to  Eleanore,  "And  you  ?"  he  added. 

Gradually  he  got  the  stories  of  our  lives.  I  told  how 
all  my  life  I  had  been  raising  up  gods  to  worship,  and 
how  the  harbor  had  flowed  silently  in  beneath,  undermin 
ing  each  one  and  bringing  it  down. 

"It  seems  to  have  such  a  habit  of  changing,"  I  ended, 
"that  it  won't  let  a  fellow  stop." 

"Lucky  people,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "to  have  found 
that  out  so  soon — to  have  had  all  this  modern  life  con 
densed  so  cozily  into  your  harbor  before  your  eyes — and 
to  have  discovered,  while  you  are  still  young,  that  life  is 
growth  and  growth  is  change.  I  believe  the  age  we  live  in 
is  changing  so  much  faster  than  any  age  before  it,  that 
a  man  if  he's  to  be  vital  at  all  must  give  up  the  idea  of  any 
fixed  creed — in  his  office,  his  church  or  his  home — that  if 
he  does  not,  he  will  only  wear  himself  out  butting  his 
indignant  head  against  what  is  stronger  and  probably 
better  than  he.  But  if  ne  does,  if  he  holds  himself  open 
to  change  and  knows  that  change  is  his  very  life,  then  he 
can  get  a  serenity  which  is  as  much  better  than  that  of  the 
monk  as  living  is  better  than  dying." 

We  talked  of  books  being  written  in  England  and 
Prance,  in  Germany  and  Russia,  all  dealing  with  deep 
changes  in  the  views  and  beliefs  and  desires  of  men. 

"Any  man,"  he  said,  "who  thinks  that  modern  Europe 
will  go  smoothly,  quietly  on,  needs  a  dose  of  your  harbor 
to  open  his  eyes." 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  sudden  thought. 

"Why  don't  you  write  a  book,"  he  asked,  "about  this 
harbor  you  have  known?" 

Eleanore  made  a  quick  move  in  her  chair. 

"That's  just  what  you  ought  to  do !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could,"  I  said.  "It  would  be  hard  to 
see  it  now,  as  it  looked  at  all  the  different  times." 

"You'll  hardly  be  able  to  do  that,"  the  Englishman 


378  THE    HARBOR 

answered  quietly.  "Because  to  each  one  of  us,  I  suppose, 
not  only  his  present  but  his  past  is  constantly  changing 
to  his  view.  But  I  wouldn't  let  that  bother  you.  What 
would  interest  me  as  a  reader  would  be  your  view  of  your 
life  as  you  look  back  upon  it  to-day — in  this  present  stage 
of  your  growth. 

"I  was  raised  in  the  Alps  myself,"  he  went  on.  "So 
my  picture  of  life  is  the  mountain  path.  As  I  climb  and 
turn  now  and  then  to  look  back,  the  twisting  little  path 
below  appears  quite  different  each  time.  But  still  I  keep 
on  writing — my  changing  view  of  the  slope  behind  and  of 
the  rising  peaks  ahead.  And  now  and  then  by  working 
my  hardest  I've  felt  the  great  joy  of  writing  the  truth. 
As  you  know,  it  isn't  easy.  But  year  by  year  I've  felt  my 
readers  grow  in  number.  I  believe  they  are  going  to  grow 
and  grow,  not  mine  nor  yours  but  the  readers  of  all  the 
chaps  like  ourselves,  the  readers  who  pick  up  each  new 
book  with  the  hope  that  one  more  fellow  has  done  his  best 
— not  to  please  them  but  to  please  himself — by  telling  of 
life  as  he  has  seen  it — his  changing  life  through  his  chang 
ing  eyes." 

After  he  left  us  there  was  a  long  silence.  Both  of  us 
were  thinking  hard.  And  as  Eleanore  looked  up  to  the 
stars  I  saw  their  brightness  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "I'm  sure.  I'm  sure  you'd 
better  take  his  advice — and  write  as  truthfully  as  you  can 
the  whole  story  as  you  see  it  now — of  this  strange  harbor 
you  have  known." 

We  talked  long  and  eagerly  that  night. 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  BEGAN  my  story  of  the  harbor.  Every  hour  that  I 
could  spare  from  the  stories  and  sketches  of  tenement  life 
by  which  I  made  a  scant  living  those  days,  I  spent  in 
gathering  memories  of  my  long  struggle  with  this  place, 
arranging  and  selecting  and  setting  them  in  order  for  this 
record  of  the  great  life  I  had  seen.  ' 

•  ••••* 

But  this  wide  world  has  many  such  lives,  many  heaving 
forces.  And  ever  since  I  had  been  born,  while  I  had  been 
building  for  myself  one  after  the  other  these  gods  of 
civilization  and  peace — all  unheeded  by  my  eyes  a  black 
shadow  had  been  silently  creeping  over  the  whole  ocean 
world.  ISTow  from  across  the  water  there  came  the  first 
low  grumble  of  war.  Within  one  short  portentous  week 
that  grumble  had  become  a  roar,  and  before  all  the  startled 
peoples  had  time  to  realize  what  was  here,  vast  armies 
were  being  rushed  over  the  lands,  all  Europe  was  in 
chaos — and  the  world  was  on  the  eve  of  the  most  pro 
digious  change  of  all. 

And  like  the  mirror  of  the  world  that  it  had  always 
been  to  me,  the  harbor  at  once  reflected  this  change.  Only 
a  little  time  before,  I  had  seen  it  almost  empty,  except  for 
that  crude  boat  of  the  crowd,  the  Internationale,  with  its 
songs  of  brotherhood  and  of  a  world  where  wars  should 
cease.  Now  I  saw  it  jammed  with  ships  from  whose  masts 
flew  every  flag  on  the  seas,  and  from  the  men  who  came 
ashore  I  heard  of  how  they  had  been  chased,  some  fired 
upon,  by  battleships — I  heard  of  war  upon  the  seas.  I 
felt  my  father's  world  reborn,  an  ocean  world  where  there 
was  nothing  without  fighting,  and  where  every  nation 

379 


380  THE    IIAKBOR 

fought.  Ours  had  already  entered  the  lists,  with  a  loud 
clamor  for  ships  of  our  own  in  which  to  seize  this  sudden 
chance  for  our  share  of  the  trade  of  the  world.  The  great 
canal  was  open  at  last,  and  Europe  in  her  turmoil  had  had 
not  even  a  moment  to  look.  The  East  and  South  lay  open 
to  us — rush  in  and  get  our  share  at  last !  Make  our  nation 
strong  at  sea ! 

And  while  in  blind  confusion  I  groped  for  some  new 
footing  here,  strove  to  see  what  it  was  going  to  mean  to 
that  fair  world  of  brotherhood  which  I  had  seen  strug 
gling  to  be  born — suddenly  as  though  in  reply  there  came 
a  sharp  voice  out  of  the  crowd. 

Joe  Kramer  came  to  trial  for  his  life.  Before  his  case 
went  to  the  jury,  Joe  rose  up  and  addressed  them.  And 
he  spoke  of  war  and  violence.  He  spoke  of  how  in  times 
of  peace  this  present  system  murders  men — on  ships  and 
docks  and  railroads,  in  the  mills  and  down  in  the  mines. 
And  as  though  these  lives  were  not  enough,  the  powers 
above  in  this  scramble  for  theirs  for  all  the  profits  in  the 
world,  all  the  sweated  labor  they  could  wring  out  of  hu 
mankind,  had  now  flown  at  each  others'  throats.  And  the 
blood  of  the  common  people  was  pouring  out  upon  the 
earth. 

"My  comrades  over  the  water,"  he  said,  "saw  this  coming 
years  ago.  They  worked  day  and  night  to  gather  the  work 
ers  of  Europe  together  against  this  war  that  will  blacken 
the  world.  For  that  they  were  called  anti-patriots,  fiends, 
men  without  a  country.  And  some  were  imprisoned  and 
others  were  shot.  And  over  here — where  in  times  of  peace 
the  number  of  killed  and  wounded  is  over  five  hundred 
thousand  a  year — for  rebelling  against  this  murder  they 
have  called  me  murderer — and  have  placed  me  here  on 
trial  for  my  life. 

"And  what  I  want  to  ask  you  now  is  that  you  take  no 
halfway  course.  Either  send  me  out  of  this  dock  a  free 
man  or  up  the  river  to  the  chair.  For  this  is  no  year  for 
compromise.  Am  I  a  murderer?  Yes  or  no.  Decide 


THE   HARBOR  381 

with  your  eyes  wide  open.  If  you  set  me  free  I  shall  still 
rebel.  I  shall  join  my  comrades  over  the  sea  who  already 
are  going  about  in  the  camps  and  saying  to  the  rank  and 
file — 'You  can  stop  this  slaughter !  You  can  save  this 
world  gone  mad!  You  can  end  this  murder — both  in 
time  of  war  and  peace !' ' 

And  the  jury  set  Joe  free. 

Early  in  the  following  week  I  went  down  to  his  room 
by  the  docks  for  a  last  evening  with  him  there.  Joe  was 
sailing  that  same  night.  Under  a  name  not  his  own  he 
had  taken  passage  in  the  steerage  of  the  big  fast  liner 
which  was  to  sail  at  one  o'clock.  Into  his  room  all  evening 
poured  his  revolutionist  friends,  and  the  chance  of  revolu 
tion  abroad  was  talked  of  in  cool  practical  terms.  Nothing 
could  be  done,  they  said,  in  the  first  few  months  to  stop 
this  war.  Years  ago  the  man  in  France,  who  had  led  the 
anti-war  movement,  had  predicted  that  if  war  broke  out 
every  government  rushing  in  would  force  on  its  people  the 
belief  that  this  was  no  war  of  aggression  but  one  of  de 
fense  of  the  fatherland  from  a  fierce  onrushing  foe.  And 
so  in  truth  it  had  come  about,  and  against  that  appeal  to 
fight  for  their  homes  no  voice  of  reason  could  stem  the 
tide. 

The  socialists  had  been  swept  on  with  the  rest.  By 
tens  and  hundreds  of  thousands  they  had  already  gone 
to  the  front.  But  it  was  upon  this  very  fact  that  Joe  and 
his  friends  now  rested  their  hopes.  For  just  so  soon  as  in 
the  camps  the  first  burst  of  enthusiasm  had  begun  to  die 
away,  as  the  millions  in  the  armies  began  to  grow  sick  of 
the  sight  of  blood,  the  groans  and  the  shrieks  of  the 
wounded  and  dying,  the  stench  of  the  dead — and  them 
selves  weary  of  fighting,  worn  by  privation  and  disease, 
began  to  think  of  their  distant  homes,  their  wives  and 
children  starving  there — then  these  socialists  in  their 
midst,  one  at  every  bivouack  fire,  would  begin  to  ask 
them : 


382  THE    HARBOR 

"Why  is  it  that  we  are  at  war  ?  What  good  is  all  this 
blood  to  us  ?  Is  it  to  make  our  toil  any  lighter,  life  any 
brighter  in  our  homes — or  were  we  sent  out  by  our  rulers 
to  die  only  in  order  that  they  in  their  scramble  might 
take  more  of  the  earth  for  themselves?  And  if  this  is 
true  why  not  rise  like  men  and  end  this  fearful  carnage  ?" 

Already  these  thousands  were  in  the  camps.  Into  Joe's 
room  that  evening  came  men  to  give  him  the  names  and 
regiments  of  those  comrades  he  could  trust.  Joe  with  a 
few  hundred  others  was  to  make  his  dangerous  way 
into  the  camps  and  the  barracks,  wherever  that  was 
possible,  of  French  and  Russians  and  Germans  alike,  to 
carry  news  from  one  to  the  other,  to  make  ready  and  to 
plan. 

Now  and  then,  in  the  talk  that  night,  I  felt  the  thril 
ling  presence  of  that  rising  god,  that  giant  spirit  of  the 
crowd,  not  dead  but  only  sleeping  now  to  gain  new 
strength  for  what  it  must  do.  And  again  in  gleams  and 
flashes  I  saw  the  vision  of  the  end — the  world  for  all  the 
workers.  For  in  this  crowded  tenement  room,  forgotten 
now  by  governments,  this  rough  earnest  group  of  men 
seemed  so  sure  of  this  world  of  theirs,  so  sure  that  it  was 
now  soon  to  be  born. 

One  by  one  they  went  away,  and  Joe  and  I  were  left 
alone.  Slowly  he  refilled  his  pipe.  I  thought  of  the  talks 
we  had  had  in  ten  years. 

"Well  Bill,"  he  inquired  at  last,  "what  are  you  going 
to  do  with  yourself?" 

"Write  what  I  see  in  the  crowd,"  I  said,  "from  my  new 
point  of  view — this  year's  point  of  view,"  I  added.  I 
went  on  to  tell  him  what  the  English  writer  had  said. 
And  I  told  of  my  book  on  the  harbor. 

"Well,"  said  Joe  when  I  was  through,  "I  guess  it's 
about  the  best  you  can  do.  You've  got  a  wife  to  think  of." 

"You  don't  know  her,"  I  rejoined,  and  I  told  him  how 
she  had  changed  our  home  in  order  not  to  stop  my  work. 

"But  don't  you  see  what  she's  up  to  ?"  said  Joe. 


THE    HARBOR  383 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?"  I  asked  indignantly. 
Joe  blew  a  pitying  puff  of  smoke. 

"You  poor  blind  dub  of  a  husband,"  he  said  with  his 
old  affectionate  smile,  "she's  making  you  love  her  all  the 
more.  You're  anchored  worse  than  ever.  You  can't  go 
over  to  Europe  and  take  a  chance  at  being  shot.  Don't 
you  see  the  hole  you're  in  ?  You've  got  to  care  what  hap 
pens  to  you." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  Joe,"  I  said.  "Things  in  this 
world  are  changing  so  fast  that  it's  hard  for  any  man  in 
it  to  tell  where  he'll  be  in  a  year  from  now — or  even  a 
few  short  months  from  now.  It's  the  year  that  no  man 
can  see  beyond." 

"You  mean  you're  coming  over  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  not  sure.  Just  now  I'm  going  to  finish  this  book. 
I'm  going  to  see  Eleanore  through  till  the  baby  is  born. 
But  after  that — if  over  in  Europe  the  people  rise  against 
this  war — I  don't  just  see  how  I  can  keep  out." 

Joe  looked  at  me  queerly.  And  with  a  curious  gruff- 
ness, 

"I  hope  you  will  keep  out,"  he  said.  "There  aren't 
many  women  like  your  wife." 

He  pulled  an  old  grip  from  under  his  bed  and  began 
throwing  in  a  few  books  and  clothes.  From  a  drawer  he 
swept  a  few  colored  shirts,  some  underclothes  and  a  small 
revolver. 

"J.  K.,"  I  said,  "I've  been  thinking  about  us.  And  I 
think  our  youth  is  gone." 

"What's  youth  ?"  asked  Joe  indifferently. 

"Youth,"  I  replied,  "is  the  time  when  you  can  think 
anything,  feel  anything  and  go  anywhere." 

"I'm  still  going  anywhere,"  he  remarked. 

"But  you  can't  think  anything,"  I  rejoined.  "You 
say  I'm  tied  to  a  wife  and  home.  All  right,  I'm  glad  I 
am.  But  you're  tied,  too.  You're  tied  to  a  creed,  Mister 
Syndicalist — a  creed  so  stiff  that  you  can't  think  of  any 
thing  else." 


384  THE   HARBOR 

"All  right,  I'm  glad  I  am,"  he  echoed.  "I'm  sorry 
youth  lasted  as  long  as  it  did." 

He  closed  his  grip  and  strapped  it.  Then  he  took  up 
his  hat  and  coat  and  threw  a  last  look  about  the  room 
where  he  had  lived  for  a  year  or  more. 

"Breaking  up  home  ties,"  he  said  with  a  grin.  "Don't 
come  to  the  boat,"  he  added  downstairs.  "She  don't  sail 
for  an  hour  or  two  and  I'll  be  asleep  in  my  bunk  long 
before." 

"All  right.  Good-by,  J.  K. — remember  we  may  meet 
over  there— " 

Again  that  gruffness  came  into  his  voice : 

"If  you  do,  you'll  be  taking  a  mighty  big  chance,"  he 
said.  "Good-by,  Bill — it's  just  possible  we  may  never 
meet  again.  Glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance,  Kid. 
Here's  wishing  you  luck." 

He  turned  and  went  off  down  the  Farm  with  that  long 
swinging  walk  of  his,  his  big  heavy  shoulders  bent  rather 
more  than  before.  And  as  I  stood  looking  after  him  I 
thought  of  the  lonely  winding  road  that  he  was  to  travel 
day  and  night,  into  slums  of  cities  and  in  and  out  among 
the  camps. 

I  walked  slowly  back  through  the  tenements  toward 
the  new  home  among  them  that  Eleanore  had  made. 

In  the  summer's  night  the  city  streets  were  still  alive 
with  people.  I  passed  brightly  lighted  thoroughfares 
where  I  saw  them  in  crowds,  and  I  knew  that  this  tide  of 
people  flowed  endlessly  through  the  hundreds  of  miles  of  ( 
streets  that  made  up  the  port  of  New  York.  Hurrying, 
idling,  talking  and  laughing,  quarreling,  fighting,  here 
stopping  to  look  at  displays  in  shop  windows,  there  pour 
ing  into  "Movies" — and  walking,  walking,  walking  on. 
Going  up  into  their  tenement  homes  to  eat  and  drink, 
love,  breed  and  sleep,  to  wake  up  and  come  down  to  an 
other  day. 

So  the  crowd  moved  on  and  on,  while  the  great  har- 


THE    HAEBOR  385 

bor  surrounding  their  lives  and  shaping  their  lives,  went 
on  with  its  changes  unheeded. 

I  tried  to  think  of  this  harbor  as  being  run  by  this 
common  crowd — of  the  railroads,  mines  and  factories, 
of  the  colleges,  hospitals  and  all  institutions  of  research, 
and  the  theaters  and  concert  halls,  the  picture  galleries, 
all  the  books — all  in  the  power  of  the  crowd. 

"It  will  be  a  long  time/'  I  thought.  "Before  it  comes 
the  crowd  must  change.  But  they  will  change — and  fast 
or  slow,  I  belong  with  them  while  they're  changing." 

Something  Joe  had  once  said  came  into  my  mind: 

"They're  the  ones  who  get  shot  down  in  wars  and 
worked  like  dogs  in  time  of  peace."  * 

And  I  thought  of  the  crowds  across  the  sea — of  men  be 
ing  rushed  over  Europe  on  trains,  or  marching  along  starlit 
roads,  or  tramping  across  meadows.  And  I  thought  of 
long  lines  of  fire  at  dawn  spurting  from  the  mouths  of 
guns — from  mountainsides,  from  out  of  woods,  from 
trenches  in  fast  blackening  fields — and  of  men  in  endless 
multitudes  pitching  on  their  faces  as  the  fire  mowed 
them  down. 

And  with  those  men,  it  seemed  to  me,  went  all  the 
great  gods  I  had  known — gods  of  civilization  and  peace — 
the  kind  god  in  my  mother's  church  and  the  smiling  god 
dess  in  Paris,  the  clear-eyed  god  of  efficiency  and  the 
awakening  god  of  the  crowd — all  plunging  into  this  fur 
nace  of  war  with  the  men  in  whose  spirits  all  gods  dwell — 
to  shrivel  and  melt  in  seething  flame  and  emerge  at  last 
in  strange  new  forms.  What  would  come  out  of  the 
furnace  ? 

I  thought  of  Joe  and  his  comrades  going  about  in  towns 
and  camps,  speaking  low  and  watching,  waiting,  hoping 
to  bring  a  new  dawn,  a  new  order,  out  of  this  chaotic 
night. 

And  I  heard  them  say  to  these  governments : 

"Your  civilization  is  crashing  down.  For  a  hundred 
years,  in  all  our  strikes  and  risings,  you  preached  against 


386  THE    HARBOR 

our  violence — you  talked  of  your  law  and  order,  your 
clear  deliberate  thinking.  In  you  lay  the  hope  of 
the  world,  you  said.  You  were  Civilization.  You 
were  Mind  and  Science,  in  you  was  all  Efficiency, 
in  you  was  Art,  Religion,  and  you  kept  the  Public 
Peace.  But  now  you  have  broken  all  your  vows.  The 
world's  treasures  of  Art  are  as  safe  with  you  as  they 
were  in  the  Dark  Ages.  Your  Prince  of  Peace  you  have 
trampled  down.  And  all  your  Science  you  have  turned 
to  the  efficient  slaughter  of  men.  In  a  week  of  your 
boasted  calmness  you  have  plunged  the  world  into  a  vio 
lence  beside  which  all  the  bloodshed  in  our  strikes*  and 
revolutions  seems  like  a  pool  beside  the  sea.  And  so  you 
have  failed,  you  powers  above,  blindly  and  stupidly  you 
have  failed.  For  you  have  let  loose  a  violence  where  you 
are  weak  and  we  are  strong.  We  are  these  armies  that 
you  have  called  out.  And  before  we  go  back  to  our  homes 
we  shall  make  sure  that  these  homes  of  ours  shall  no  more 
become  ashes  at  your  will.  For  we  shall  stop  this  war  of 
yours  and  in  our  minds  we  shall  put  away  all  hatred  of 
our  brother  men.  For  us  they  will  be  workers  all.  With 
them  we  shall  rise  and  rise  again — until  at  last  the  world 
is  free!" 

The  voice  had  ceased — and  again  I  was  walking  by 
myself  along  a  crowded  tenement  street.  Immigrants 
from  Europe,  brothers,  sons  and  fathers  of  the  men  now 
in  the  camps,  kept  passing  me  along  the  way.  As  I  looked 
into  their  faces  I  saw  no  hope  for  Europe  there.  Such 
men  could  take  and  hold  no  world.  But  then  I  remem 
bered  how  in  the  strike,  out  of  just  such  men  as  these,  I 
had  seen  a  giant  slowly  born.  Would  that  crowd  spirit 
rise  again  ?  Could  it  be  that  the  time  was  near  when  this 
last  and  mightiest  of  the  gods  would  rise  and  take  the 
world  in  his  hands  ? 

At  home  I  found  Eleanore  asleep.  For  a  time  I  sat 
at  my  desk  and  made  some  notes  for  my  writing.  I  read 


THE    HARBOR  387 

rand  smoked  for  a  little,  then  undressed  and  went  to  bed. 
But  still  I  lay  there  wide  awake — thinking  of  this  home* 
of  mine  and  of  where  I  might  be  in  a  few  months  more, 
in  this  year  that  no  man  can  see  beyond.  For  all  the 
changes  in  the  world  seemed  gathering  in  a  cyclone  now. 

I  was  nearly  asleep  when  I  was  roused  by  a  thick  voice 
from  the  harbor.  Low  in  the  distance,  deep  but  now 
rising  blast  on  blast,  its  waves  of  sound  beat  into  the  city 
— into  millions  of  ears  of  sleepers  and  watchers,  the  well, 
the  sick  and  the  dying,  the  dead,  the  lovers,  the  schemers, 
the  dreamers,  the  toilers,  the  spenders  and  wasters.  I 
shut  my  eyes  and  saw  the  huge  liner  on  which  Joe  was 
sailing  moving  slowly  out  of  its  slip.  Down  at  its  bottom 
men  shoveling  coal  to  the  clang  of  its  gong.  On  the  decks 
above  them,  hundreds  of  cabins  and  suites  de  luxe — most 
of  them  dark  and  empty  now.  Bellowing  impatiently  as 
it  swept  out  into  the  stream,  it  seemed  to  be  saying: 

"Make  way  for  me.  Make  way,  all  you  little  men. 
Make  way,  all  you  habits  and  all  you  institutions,  all  you 
little  creeds  and  gods.  For  I  am  the  start  of  the  voyage 
— over  the  ocean  to  heathen  lands !  And  I  am  always 
starting  out  and  always  bearing  you  along!  For  I  am 
your  molder,  I  am  strong — I  am  a  surprise,  I  am  a 
shock — I  am  a  dazzling  passion  of  hope — I  am  a  grim 
executioner!  I  am  reality — I  am  life!  I  am  the  book 
that  has  no  end !" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


DEC5' 


HOV  06 

27  \t$& 
• 


\ 

1989 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


PS3531.       P78H    1915A 


